


Through the Ashes in the Sky

by Ruby_Wren



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Slight Cannon divergence, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 45,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3901120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruby_Wren/pseuds/Ruby_Wren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Conclave had been their last hope, to stem the tide of blood in a world was mad and burning. They had come and hoped for peace — and now the Temple was in ashes, and the only survivor was the mage with the mark on her hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Her hand.

_Rocks stone hard broken hard underfoot. Hard to stand. Her legs ached and her bones ached, and her hand her hand her hand…_

Ached. Seared. _Burnt_.

_Burning. The world was burning. She couldn’t see for the smoke, thick, choking the air, choking her. The air was red, green and red, green and soft and slippery as silk and, behind it, red with flame._

Her _hand —_

Crackling, like the first whisper of lighting, shards of it stabbing through her fingers, spearing up along the bone. She heard a cry.

_A sound in the distance.  Skittering, snapping, closer. Getting closer. Coming towards her. She tried to push herself up, and her hand… She tried not to scream_.

Don’t scream, don’t, they’ll hear you. 

But the pain, Maker, _pain_ … Hers. Wrong. Not like lighting — not like lighting at all. Lightning never hurt like this. This bit through bone, arrowed to her very core, and pulled —

_Focus_.

It was…

_Calm yourself and focus_.

It was… _like the first time she had reached for lighting. Senior Enchanter Maxim had shielded himself well ahead of time — and then, after, smiled at her expression and squeezed her shoulder. The smile was rare. The touch was even more so. Physical contact was discouraged in the tower, but Enchanter Maxim would chance it, once or twice, if the Templars weren’t watching. It was odd how comforting that small gesture was; she wondered, later, why the Templars would want to deny them comfort. If it was caution, or fear, or hate._

_“Everyone scorches themselves the first time,” Enchanter Maxim told her, and for a brief moment his eyes had been kind. It had surprised her at first.  She hadn’t expected kindness. No one was cruel in the tower — they were civil, they were calm, they were polite — but they shied away from anything that could be seen as weakness._

_Then he had said: “It is not a dagger, to be picked up and thrown haphazardly at target. You are the dagger, Selena, and this — ” lightning snapped tamely across his palm “ — is only the blade. Lighting, fire, or ice, it is all the same. It is not about controlling the power. It is about controlling yourself, and letting the power flow through you. If we can teach you nothing else, we must teach you mastery over yourself.”_

_Focus_.

Hard, so hard, when this  _sensation_ clouded her head and sang along every fiber. When the only feeling that was clear at all was _—_ power.  Even beyond the pain.  Power, raw and brutal, the force of it fire-working from her hand and searing every breath to ash.

_Faster, go faster, they were coming. A figure. Light in the dark. A hand reaching for her, and she pushed, feet slipping out from under her, reaching out, and her hand…_

Stop. Don’t feel. _Think_. Think past it. Think _through_ it. The power, the pull —

_Good_.

That was…Enchanter Maxim’s voice. She recognized it now, sluggishly, struggling to push her mind beyond the pain. It was his voice. She thought it was, but there was something skimming just along the surface.  An echo.  A voice that wasn’t his. She heard it, she thought she did, but her head was so heavy…

_Focus. Do not fight it. Hold onto it._

The power flared again, her fingers, like glass under the skin.  A fractured rope of it, twisting up into her chest, wrapping tight, binding her fast.

_Yes, a rope. Imagine it’s a rope, running to your hand. It is yours. Your hand. Your power._

_Now hold on_.

She heard the cry of pain again, because there was pain — there was _pain_. So much of it that it seemed to exist outside of her, like something dim and huge and lurking in the shadows. The power in her hand seemed to rear and buck and splinter. 

_That is it. Do not let go. Embrace it._

A wave. The pain was a wave that threatened to crash down overhead, and she could feel it cresting. The pressure in her hand built like a scream. She forced her fingers to tighten, forced herself to hold on.

_Do not let go_.

She held fast, as pain thundered in like an avalanche.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Consciousness came in fragments.  Images — senses — crowding in and slipping away and pulling her up from somewhere.

She smelled… smoke.  Cold.  Damp.  Old, but everywhere, soaking into every breath.  Smoke and ash and… and charred meat…  It smelled wrong.  Her head was swimming, and when she tried to swallow back against the smoke it caught in her throat, but she knew it was wrong.  

She heard voices. Deep. Echoing.   _ …waking…inform Seeker… _

Something was wrong.  Something…ached.  It woke her, it had…  Throbbing.  Shifting.  Sharp as broken glass.  Her hand — her hand  _ ached _ .  It pulled her up, out of the dark.  A deep, pulsing ache that was erratic and relentless and bit straight down to the bone — and then the shards of it turned, cut — and then  _ pain _ — sharp sparkling splinters of it — ripping into her, ripping her into — she heard the cry… 

She saw the dark, so dark, but… that wasn’t right, that didn’t make sense, it had been…   _ gold bright glowing out of the smoke like a lantern  … _ saw, blurry, the dim flicker of of a torch, all but swallowed up by the shadows.  Heard the dull ring of boots on a stone floor.  She shifted, tried to, but her legs were dead and numb beneath her, pins and needles flaring to life as she moved and stiff muscles screaming.  She realized she was shivering.  

How long had she been here?  Where… She wet her lips, trying to work past the fog in her head, and tasted ash.  Where  _ was _ she?  Maker, her  _ head _ … 

The torch was barely enough to give shape to the shadows, but she could see… stones.  Cold, damp.  The wet had eaten through her clothes until they clung to her, her patched jacket a damp weight on sore shoulders and her rough wool scarf scratching at her throat.  The torchlight danced dully along the stone floor, stone walls, on iron bars, on… armor.  Swords — light glinted along the blades —  _ no _ —  _ Templars _ —  _ no, please, please, no _ — she tried to push back, away,  _ get away, _ and she crashed to the wet floor, her legs still useless beneath her and her arms — bound.  Shackled together and bolted to the floor by a heavy iron chain.  And finally —  _ finally  _ — the foggy traces of her mind understood what her eyes were seeing.

Not Templars.  Not the armor of Templars.  Not the weapons.  Selena closed her eyes, forced the air out of her lungs in one hard, shaken breath.  Not a scream, she would  _ not _ scream.  She was shivering so badly her chains jangled softly.  It was cold, it was so, so cold.

_ Not Templars. _

Then…then who?  Why?  She hadn’t…she didn’t…she had been…

_ The Conclave _ .  

She had been at the Conclave. They had come, the Chantry had called them and they had come, on the need, the hope of a way to stem the tide of blood that had already taken too, too many. The world was mad and burning, but they had come and hoped for peace. And —

And then —

Then… _what_ …

_Sounds behind her, running, please Maker please, nails biting into stone, please, a hand reaching out for hers and her hand…_

Ached. Maker, it…

It _glowed_. Green and brilliant, and bright enough to make the shadows flicker. She tensed instinctively, but it only snapped, it didn’t sting, and that…surprised her. Her nerves were taut, singing, ready for it to bite, for the pain that didn’t come, so that the absence of it felt wrong somehow.

A door swung open in front of her, startling her in its near silence, and she flinched away from the sudden, blinding square of light. It lanced into her eyes, and she fought the urge to squeeze them shut and turn away. There was the smooth hiss of swords being sheathed, and then footsteps, and she saw, silhouetted in the doorway, a figure. A woman, dark and harsh-featured, wearing the armor of a Chantry Seeker, a shield on her back and a sword at her belt.

Chantry. Not Templars. The Templars had broken from the Chantry when it had objected to their…tactics. Chantry was better. They called for the Conclave. They wanted peace. She fought, choked, against the acid taste of panic that rose up in the back of her throat. The Chantry was better — she told herself it was.

“… _are awake…finally…_ ” She could barely hear it over the sound of her pulse, thundering in her ears. She saw the Seeker’s mouth move, heard the words, but they echoed as if underwater. Her mind struggled to translate, had to piece them together one bit at a time.

“ _…is your_ name?”

This was a little easier. She knew this. Understood this. Still it took effort. “Selena.” Her voice sounded startlingly loud in the darkness. “Selena Trevelyan.”

The Seeker glared down at her, her strong features even harsher in the dim light of the…dungeon? Prison? Her dark eyes were hot and angry, her hand clenched on the hilt of her sword. “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

Words rushed up, too fast for sense or reason, caught in her throat and choked there. She didn’t have to understand. There didn’t have to be a reason. It was enough to be a mage. Don’t, don’t panic. Think. Why was so hard to _think_? Maker, her hand _ached_ … It was an ache that went past bone and muscle, that sang in the back of her mind. She forced herself to focus on the iron shackles weighing down her arms.

Think. _Focus_. She had been at the Conclave — she knew that — in spite of the ache, building now, in her hand, her head, weighing her thoughts down like a shroud. “Where…where am I?” It was like fighting the tide to pull out each word. “What — ” _What is going on?_

“You are in Haven.” The voice was soft. Orlesian. And it was only when she heard it that Selena noticed the other woman, hooded and half-hidden in the shadows. She hadn’t been there — had she been there? Selena tried to think, couldn’t be sure. She seemed to shift in and out of the shadows, though she didn’t move at all, the darkness wrapped around her like a cloak. Then the light flickered, flashed off something underneath the hood, winking just beyond the twist and curve of fabric. A Chantry seal. “We found you at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and brought you here.” Before Selena could form the question, the voice continued, soft as silk. “The Conclave was destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead.”

“Everyone,” the Seeker snarled. “Except for _you_.”

Selena looked at them, she was…she was shaking her head. “No. No, that’s…” It wasn’t real, it was impossible. “No, I was — I was just there — what do you mean _everyone is dead?_ ” It burst out of her, ringing against the stones.

“Exactly that,” The Seeker spat out. “The Temple — the Conclave — ” The Seeker’s voice nearly broke; it only seemed to anger her more. “Explain it to us. Explain how it happened. How you are the only one to have survived.” The Seeker jerked up Selena up by her shackles, her glowing hand. “Explain _this_.”

“I…” Selena’s hand sparked and flared. She clenched it into a fist, tried to hold it back, to control it, and that — Maker, no, _that_ was a mistake. The power flared, sending shards of pain bolting into her like lightning, the jagged teeth of it biting so deep it left her breathless. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you _can’t_?”

“I don’t know what that is, or how it got there.” Selena tried to keep the throb of panic out of her voice, tried and failed. The power in her hand was still flashing, green and brilliant, quicksilver blades of it ripping through her skin. She swore she could feel it eating up her entire arm. “I don’t know what happened — I don’t remember — ”

“You’re lying!” The Seeker grabbed her, nearly hauling off the floor, her shoulders screaming out as her arms jerked up awkwardly in her shackles — but the next moment the hooded woman was between them, Selena crashing to the floor and the Seeker jerking angrily away, as the hooded woman murmured something in a low, urgent voice.

“I don’t — ” Selena heard the cracks in her voice and had to stop, to fight back against the wave that threatened to drag her under, to shut her eyes against the memories. Dead. “I — I can’t — I _don’t_ believe it — all those people — ” All dead. Again.

Stop. Don’t think about it, don’t _don’t_ … She shook her head, fierce. “It’s not…it didn’t…”

“It did.” The hooded woman turned towards Selena, tilted her head. In the flicker of torchlight, there was a glimpse of a pale face. “Do you remember what happened? How this began?”

Selena swallowed. Think. Focus. “I remember…”

Walking. Up the mountain. The crunch of snow underfoot. The sharp scent of pine. The sun overhead, bright and clear, and her breath icing in the air as she climbed.

A line of mages winding out in front of her, a line of Templars marching along opposite, armor gleaming in the sun, and the temple ahead of them like a beacon.

She remembered arriving at the Temple, the Chantry flags snapping in the wind. And, inside, soldiers, ordering them to disarm. They had stood there, Templars and mages, eyeing each other warily, and that moment singing along as if it would snap. And then a young Templar — painfully young, barely grown enough for his armor — huffed angrily — _sod this_ — and slammed his sword and shield down on the long table and glared at his fellow Templars. She remembered the thumps and clicks as staffs and swords were set down. The feeling as she set her staff on the table, of emptiness, of utter helplessness.

She remembered…doors…wide doors…walking in and…

_Behind her. They were behind her. She could hear them, skittering, claws scraping — Maker, what were they? Don’t think about that now — it didn’t matter, they were coming after her —_

“Running,” Selena said. “ _Things_ were chasing me, and then…”

_Climb. Get up, get away. The stairs were cracked, broken, crumbling away underfoot as she pushed herself up, muscles burning, legs screaming out, nails scraping breaking against the stone, but they were behind her, she had to get to — to get to —_ “A woman.”

“A woman?”

_Gold. Gold and brilliant, and glowing, a beacon in the dark. An arm reaching out to her. Fingers stretching, straining…_ “She reached out to me, and then…” And then nothingness. And then pain, and waking up here.

She remembered the woman, glowing through the smoke. She remembered the light in the dark.

The hooded woman still had a hand on the Seeker’s arm; they shared a look, and stepped a little ways away. They kept their voices low, but the murmur echoed off the walls, like ripples in a pool. … _to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift_.

The hooded woman was still. So still that if Selena hadn’t been watching her, hadn’t known she was there, she would have melted into the shadows. _You will have to take her through the village. And you will have to move quickly. Once they see that you are taking her, they will try to stop you. Stop her._

The Seeker nodded, and the hooded woman slipped out.

The Seeker crossed to Selena, her boots loud and sharp against the stone floor. She bent down in front of Selena — and then took her hand off her sword to unlock the heavy iron shackles. The feel of the weight dropping away had Selena gasping, but before she could give into the urge to rub her aching wrists, the Seeker bound them up together with rope. She was brisk, efficient, and took care not to touch Selena’s left hand. As if in answer to the change, the power sizzled along her fingers.

“What did happen?” Selena asked.

The look the Seeker gave her was guarded. “It will be easier to show you,” she said finally, helping Selena to her feet. It took a moment for her legs to flare painfully to life again, and Selena realized only when the Seeker let go that she had held on until Selena found her footing. “Come.”


	3. Chapter 3

The passage leading out of the dungeon was dark and narrow, as were, beyond that, the stairs. A number of them. Going up. They were difficult to manage, but, with effort, Selena did manage them; her feet were sluggish, and stumbled, but they obeyed her. It was getting easier to think.

Then her foot slipped and she stumbled, and there was a moment of thrumming panic — _running up steps, stone giving way underfoot, a sick sudden lurch, don’t fall they’ll get you if you fall_ — but she was able to catch herself, rapping her knee hard on the stone steps.

Perhaps _easier_ wasn’t the right word. Perhaps _accustomed_ was better. She was growing accustomed to the fog, she could work with it, through it. She could focus. If she concentrated.

She did focus — fought for it — and pushed herself back to her feet.

At the top of the stairs, the Seeker threw open a door and stepped into a larger, brighter room beyond. It took Selena a sluggish moment to recognize they were in a Chantry. Old-fashioned, archaic, with heavy stone walls and close ceilings. Light snapped from ancient iron chandeliers, flickered up from puddles of candles on the floor, orange and gold and only deepening the shadows. Choked voices in a nearby room sang a funeral hymn, and, closer, there was a desperate, whispered, _let those who cry out from the shadows be comforted, let those who seek redemption be delivered, let those…let those…_ The whisper faltered, cracked, and Selena heard weeping.

The Seeker did not stop, but went straight for the Chantry’s massive studded doors, her long-legged stride unwavering and relentless as an advancing army. Two guards pushed hurriedly at the doors as she approached, the iron hinges screaming as the doors swung open. Air rushed in, icy and smelling of snow, and sunlight seared up off of white, off snow — the Seeker strode out, and Selena blindly followed. The air cut into her, sharp as a slap, so dry it rasped like sand in her throat. She felt the slight give of the snow underfoot, and lifted her hands to shield her eyes…

…and felt the pull.

_Maker_.

And saw… _it_. Was looking at it even as her vision cleared.

_Maker help them._

Saw it, blazing up from the mountain, burning its way into the sky and…was not surprised…

“What… _what_ — ” What _was_ it?

Brilliant. Glowing. Power. Sheer _power._ Like the eye of a storm, slowly swirling, centered on…where the Temple had been. Even from here she could see the destruction, and… _it_ speared up from the wreckage toward the heavens, pulling the skies with it as it twisted. Strong enough to tear up the earth underneath it, so that rocks and wreckage were caught like flecks in amber, and, above, rip apart the sky. Its burn searing the heavens green.

“We call it the Breach.” The Seeker’s voice was solemn. “It is a massive rift into the world of demons. We do not know how it happen,” she told Selena. “Only that there was an explosion at the Conclave. It destroyed the Temple of Sacred Ashes and gave birth to — _that_.”

Selena fought to tear her eyes away from the Breach. She couldn’t…

She _could_ think. She would.

She should be surprised. Why wasn’t she surprised? But she had known, she had expected…she had _looked for it_.

Selena made herself swallow, tried to, but her mouth was so dry, and when she spoke it came out as little more than a whisper. “An explosion can do that?”

“This one did.” The Seeker turned to her. “It is not the only such rift. Just the largest — and it grows larger with each passing hour. Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

There was a pulse from the Breach, like thunder, and Selena — _felt_ it _._ Green — bright — sharp — it arrowed through her, and her body arced, her hand straining out towards the massive rift, muscles screaming. _No_. That was her. She was screaming. The pain cut her off at the knees and she fell, doubling over.

It took a moment for her to realize the pain had ebbed. To realize she was kneeling on the snow. Feel the soft flutter of snowflakes on her face, and the rasp of air in her lungs, cold and bright as a wasp sting.

The Seeker crouched down in front of her, and nodded to her hand. “The mark on your hand is connected to the Breach. I do not know how.” She caught Selena’s gaze, held it. “But I do know that each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads — and it is killing you.”

Selena fought the urge to gulp down air. The pain had faded — was fading — but the aftershocks of it echoed through her, like the last fading gongs of a bell, leaving her shaken. “You — you think I did this?” It wasn’t truly a question, not with the way the Seeker was looking at her. Selena swallowed the pain as power crackled along her palm, but only faintly this time. She could bear it. “I didn’t. I didn’t do this. I _wouldn’t_.”

“You do not remember what happened — or so you said,” the Seeker replied. “How would you know?”

“I know I wouldn’t do that,” Selena said, jerking a vicious nod towards the Breach. “Not to all those _people_ ,” and wished, _Maker,_ she could take back how her voice broke on that last word. She would not think about it — the Conclave — the Temple — don’t think about it — _all those people._ Even from here she could see the scar on the mountain, black and ugly, and the Breach burning at the heart of it. She swore she could _hear_ it. “You think I did this to — to myself?”

“Perhaps you did not do so intentionally. Something clearly went wrong.” The Seeker’s arched an eyebrow. “But how this happened — and whoever is responsible — that is not the issue right now. The Breach is. Your mark may be the key, but there isn’t much time.”

“How?” Selena felt the pull even now, the echo of it in her chest, and tucked her arms in close against it. “The key to — to what?”

“Closing the Breach. Whether that’s possible is something we shall discover shortly. It is our only chance, however. And yours. You wish to prove your innocence? This is the only way.”

Selena swallowed hard. Forced herself to take one deep breath. Then another. It was so cold here. Kneeling on the ground as she was, the snow was creeping through her soaked leggings, sneaking into her boots. She’d always had a talent for the cold. Focus on that. On the ice. Pull it in. Wrap it around you. Focus and _think_. “I understand.”

The Seeker’s face lost a great deal of its harshness, and Selena caught something eager, desperate, underneath. “Then?”

The cold was like a blade, frosting her breath as she pulled the icy air into her lungs again, trying to let it calm her, clear her mind. And, like a blade, it helped cut through the fog.

She looked at the Breach. At the ruins of the Temple. “I’ll do what I can. Whatever it takes.”

The Seeker opened her mouth, as if to say something — and then closed it. She rose, taking a handful of Selena’s jacket to haul her to her feet. “We cannot afford to linger. We must get to the rift, to test your mark, and the people here — it would be best if we moved quickly. Keep your head down, and do not speak.”

 

* * *

 

Haven. They were in Haven. Selena recognized it — remembered it? — as the Seeker, hand at her back, led her through the village. Past the small cluster of makeshift tents and rough wooden houses built, first and last, to keep the weather out. Past the bonfires, crackling in the frigid air as they battled back the cold. Past the people. Too many people to be so quiet. They would freeze as the Seeker pushed her past, stiffening, straightening, but making way. Staring and silent. A gauntlet, Selena thought, and told herself to ignore it. To not look. She was a mage, she’d gotten those looks before. The fear. The hate.

They were nearly at the gate out of the village when someone broke the silence, called out — “Seeker? Seeker!” — but the Seeker ignored them and quickened her pace. Selena felt her footsteps falter, but the Seeker did not let her fall, and she did not let her stop. As they approached the gate, a man in makeshift armor cut away from the crowd and rushed ahead of them, up the road.

The Seeker watched him go, and then pulled Selena outside and jerked her toward a path through the woods. “We will take the back way.”

The way through the trees was quiet and shadowed, and uneven. Rocks and knotted roots snagged her feet, and Selena had to concentrate on every step. The Seeker’s arm behind her back was like an iron bar, forcing her onwards, as the path wound up towards the mountain.

The trees broke off as they came to a river, and bridge. A stone arch with a pair of heavy wooden doors barred access, but a soldier standing guard turned and signaled when he saw the Seeker, and the doors creaked opened to let them pass.

There was a small group of soldiers on the bridge, clustered together in prayer. They were focused on the father leading the Chant, not them. “Move quickly,” the Seeker said, “but do not run. It will draw attention if we run.”

Selena nodded. The Seeker kept her hand on Selena’s arm as she escorted her briskly across the bridge, nearly dragging her, and Selena pushed harder, forcing her legs to go faster, to keep up. She would not be dragged.

At the other end of the bridge, the Seeker nodded to the guards standing sentry. “Open the gate! We are headed into the valley.”

“The valley?” That was — Selena frowned. That was not the most direct way to the Temple. “Where — where are you taking me?”

“Your mark must be tested against something smaller than the Breach. For the moment this is all conjecture, and I will not risk more lives in an attempt to reach the Breach if I do not _know_.”

The path just beyond the bridge was jig-sawed with barricades, and fire. Men ran past them as the Seeker guided Selena past the thick wooden spikes and overturned carts, up the path towards the mountain. The Seeker let go of her to catch one man, his attention fixed on the valley behind him, as he slammed into Selena and stumbled, nearly headfirst, into the fiery wreck of a cart. “Maker help us — it’s the end — Maker, it’s the end of the world — ”

He cut off, seeing Selena. Seeing her hand. He scrambled to his feet, not seeming to notice the flames eating at his coat. “Forgive us!” He reached out, grabbed her jacket, but the Seeker hauled him back. “Tell her to forgive us _tell her to forgive us!_ ”

The Seeker shoved him away and nodded for Selena to continue on. “Come.”

“What does he — ”

The Seeker took her arm and propelled her forward. “We do not have time to waste. Come.”

They weren’t much farther up the path when something shot from the Breach and flared across the sky, green and so bright it hurt the eyes. It smashed into the tree line some ways ahead of them, shrieking as it fell.

Even as she turned to follow it, the Breach pulsed, and Selena’s hand flared. The pain was staggering, like the blow from a hammer, and Selena stumbled and dropped to her knees, hugging her hand vainly to her chest. Blind with pain. She had always thought that was simply an expression. She hadn’t thought it was possible to go blind with pain, for certain parts of you to be simply overwhelmed and — _stop_. There was an odd ringing echo in her ears.

She felt hands take her by the arms, and help her to her feet. Her vision slowly cleared as the pain ebbed, and she saw the Seeker, looking at her with…concern.

To her surprise, the Seeker gave her a steadying pat on the arm.

“I’ll be all right,” Selena said, though she had to concentrate on moving her legs forward, first one and then the other. To focus on the feel of the rocks and the earth underfoot and push against it. “It’s simply…” Stunning, she thought. She hadn’t properly understood what that word meant before. The pain, the force of it, stunned her. “I can bear it. I will.” She would bear it.

“Yes,” the Seeker said, and simple confidence in her voice — not threat or question, but only acceptance — startled Selena into looking over.

“You…believe that?” Selena asked.

“I do.” the Seeker told her. “And I believe that I will carry you to the Breach itself if I have to.”

“I believe you would,” Selena said, nearly gasping in the cold, dry air as the climb grew steeper. But her legs were her own again; she didn’t have to think as hard about moving them to make them move.

The Seeker kept beside her as they made their way up, her hand on Selena’s arm. “The pulses are coming faster now. But I cannot let you rest. With each pulse, the Breach grows, and the larger it grows, the more rifts appear, the more demons we — and those in the valley — must face. They are escaping through the rifts too quickly, and in numbers that we cannot control.” The Seeker glanced briefly at Selena’s hand, her expression going hard. “If your mark does not work, if we do not find some way of closing the Breach, then we will soon be overrun.”

Again, Selena looked up at the Breach, glowing green on the broken remnants of the mountain top. She could barely feel her fingers, barely feel anything beyond the ache. It was in her arm now, radiating up the bone, eating its way past her elbow, to her shoulder. It was as if her bones had been smashed into jagged bits, so that each movement was pain, sharp and ragged, tearing her apart from the inside.

They came to another bridge — and stopped.

Halfway down, a group of men were clustered together in angry council, arms crossed, voices harsh and nearly inaudible against the wind. They cut off as one looked up and jabbed an angry finger at Selena. He shoved his way forward, the rest exchanging glances as they planted themselves in the middle of the bridge. Blocking the way.

Watching them, the Seeker took Selena’s wrists and drew a knife. Selena couldn’t keep from staring at it, realized only when pain fire-worked along her arm that she’d tried to step back, and that the Seeker held her rope in an iron grip. The blade gleamed dully in the frosty sunlight.

“Seeker Pentaghast!”

The Seeker cut through her bonds in a single quick, clean cut.

Selena’s wrists sang as the blood rushed back into them. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet.” The Seeker flicked her knife back into its sheath and stepped in front of Selena. “Corporal.”

“Is that her?” he demanded.

“Make way. We have business in the valley.” When the men didn’t move, the Seeker put her hand on the pommel of her sword. “That is an _order_.”

“Is that the mage bitch who murdered the Divine?”

Impossible as it seemed, the Seeker drew herself up even straighter. “This woman is a prisoner of — she is _my_ prisoner,” the Seeker declared, “and she is in my charge. I am escorting her into the valley. You will make way.”

“We don’t want to hurt you, Seeker. Just give us the spellbind and walk aw — ”

The shriek cut him off, and there was barely time to look up, see another flare from the Breach, the bright green tail of it screaming through the air towards them, before it smashed into the bridge. The stones fell away underfoot, and Selena tumbled down. There was a sudden lurch of panic — _they’ll get you they’ll_ — and thenthe frozen river broke her fall. Badly.

Pain — the blunt, dull, ringing pain of the fall — was nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the overwhelming sensation that seared through her, lightning wrapped in razor-wire. She realized, desperately, dimly — barely — through it all that she was lying on her hand, and managed to shift — barely — off of it. To roll back and sag against something cold and hard. Stones, she realized, as the first giddy wave of relief sank into her. The bridge. Bits of the bridge that had broken apart and fallen to the river with them.

Her head was ringing — different this time, sharper, _Maker_ , and she felt something warm and wet drip down the side of her face. Selena touched it gingerly, and her fingers came away red. She heard cracks — the ice? The rocks…stone — bridge? The bridge? And…a voice. Male. Groaning. Long and low, pain made sound.

Then there was another crack, loud, louder than everything else — stabbing the air and jolting the ice underneath her. Farther down, creeping past the fallen stones, moving like it was alive, was a pool of… black. Bubbling. Like shadows made substance. Bubbles rose, roiled, burst, and there was a smell, strange and wrong. Smoke, if smoke could sour and rot. Green shards shot up through the thick, inky bubbles, and —

Black. Claws. Teeth. Shrieking. _Demon_.

_Shade_ , her mind said. It was a shade. She had seen shades before. In books. Illustrations.

This…this was nothing like that.

The Seeker shoved herself to her feet, drawing her sword as she stepped in front of Selena. “Stay behind me!”

She charged. The demon’s claws lashed out, shrieked along the Seeker’s shield, and it screamed, echoing, inhumanely, as her sword bit deep.

Another jolt — right in front of Selena — under her — cracking the ice, and the black, sour-smelling smoke bubbled up. She felt it coating her hands, clinging to her skin like grease. She shoved herself up, gritting her teeth, tasting copper in the back of her throat, and her left arm gave way, her elbow buckling as she tried to push herself away. Shards speared up, inches from her face, and she kicked, scrambled, backwards, boots scraping along the ice. Hands, long-fingered and taloned, forced themselves through the shards, and another shade wrenched its way through. Selena’s good hand scraped against broken stone, wood, boxes, closed around — _a staff_.

The shade lunged for her, and she jerked the staff up, around, slamming it into the ice. She was _good_ at ice. She felt the power bolt through her, the staff, singing — _think of it as a song,_ Enchanter Maxim had said, _and the staff is your instrument_ — and the ice rocketed up from the river, trapping the shade. She could feel the ice, under her, in the air, the song of it, as it wrapped around the shade, freezing it where it stood. She could feel the demon imprisoned inside and the ice racing through its skin, teeth, claws, until there was nothing left, nothing except ice. Her ice. Her power, her _control_.

A shield smashed into it from behind, and the shade burst apart, black and red shards scattering along the frozen river.

Selena let out a long breath, feeling the energy drain from her like water. She glanced up at the Seeker, and nodded her thanks.

In the quiet, she heard the groans again. Softer now, going breathless. “ _Maker…Maker…”_

She saw boots, legs, bent…in a way legs shouldn’t bend, and crawled, pushed her way over, using the staff to help her. The man’s head, and one arm, were visible. The rest was buried under stone.

He peered up at her blindly as she bent over him. “Davey?” he gasped. “Davey...”

Selena looked around, for the others — saw the broken remnants of the bridge, the stones, the blood — but it didn’t matter. The light had faded from his eyes. She closed her eyes, her chest oddly tight, and let the breath she only then realized she was holding. She wanted to be angry. Or relieved, perhaps. No, not relieved, not really, but, Maker, she wanted to feel anything other than tired.

It never ended, it never, ever ended. She was so tired. It hadn’t even been a year, and she was so tired of the blood.

She heard the Seeker’s footsteps crunch towards her. Heard her own voice, calmer than she felt. “It’s over.”

“No. It isn’t. Not the demons, and not this.” The Seeker barely hesitated before pressing on. “I hoped we could avoid it. The people of Haven, of — they have decided your guilt. They _need_ it.” She said it firmly, without apology or agreement. “We all saw what happened at the Conclave. We saw the explosion. It could not have been an accident. Someone _must_ be responsible — they must have someone to blame — and you are all they have. We lash out like the sky, but we must think beyond ourselves, as Most Holy — ” and the Seeker did stop, and her voice had the sharp ache of tears.

“I’m sorry.” It took a moment for recognition to steep through the ache in her head, to understand the quiet words, the voice, was her own.

There was the barest hesitation, but when the Seeker spoke again, she sounded more controlled. “The Conclave was hers. Her hope. It was a chance for peace between mages and Templars. Divine Justinia brought their leaders together, and now they are dead, and with it everything she hoped for, _we_ hoped for.”

“I…” Selena stopped — and then said it anyway. “I hoped for that as well.”

The Seeker did not respond. Selena told herself it didn’t matter; of course the Seeker didn’t believe her. It didn’t make it untrue. She’d hoped the Conclave could be, if not an end, at least the beginning of the end. She’d needed that hope, needed it so fiercely that she’d insisted on going, even when Gwendolyn and the others hadn’t liked the idea.

_It could be a trap_ , Gwen had said. _The Templars have the Chantry in their pocket, you can’t trust them._

And Royce had laughed, and said _Who cares if they do? Won’t be the first time you’ve faced Templars!_ Royce could laugh, because he hadn’t been at Ostwick. He had only heard about it, and what he’d heard he thought heroic and glorious.

Selena wasn’t sure where he’d heard it from. They never spoke about it. Not when Ewan, silent and so, so angry — too angry for simple words — boiled over at the temperature of their tea or a tear in his blanket, and lashed out at anyone foolish enough to be near him. Not when Lilywell woke in the night and screamed and screamed. Their kind, new, concerned friends asked if they were all right and if there was anything they could do, and they had always said, thank you, and no. Because there was nothing anyone could do.

Selena had ignored Royce’s laugher. She’d said to Gwen, _You don’t need to come with me._

And Gwen had said, _You’d say that to me_, and she’d been so angry she hadn’t spoken to Selena for the rest of the day. But the next morning she had tied up her pack, and Ewan had picked up his staff, and Selena had found them waiting for her as she left camp.

They had come to the Conclave with her. Because of her. And now — now they — now _she_ was the only one — don’t don’t don’t think about it don’t please, Maker, please she couldn’t bear it…

She had wanted the Conclave to be real. She had hoped, so blindly, that there were others — Chantry — mages — Templars — who were tired of fighting, of blood, other _people_ who wanted peace.

Selena reached for the staff. She had to get to her feet. She had to keep moving. There was the Breach. Demons. That was here and now, and she would not think about anything else.

There was a click. Selena turned to look, and saw that the Seeker had set her boot down on the staff by her hand.

Selena didn’t move. “You cut me free earlier.”

“That does not mean I want you to be armed.”

Selena stared up at the Seeker, fighting down the blade of anger that flared to life in her chest, hot, frighteningly hot, through the cold. “I don’t need this staff to be dangerous.”

The Seeker narrowed her eyes. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

“I could have used my magic on you at any time,” Selena said, and knew it sounded ridiculous. Was ridiculous, when she could barely stand, when every shift in the air — in the Breach — had power crackling through her hand, clawing its way along her nerves like lightning. “I could have run.”

“You could have _tried_ ,” the Seeker replied hotly.

“Yes,” Selena said, and made herself meet the Seeker’s gaze, and not look away.

The Seeker’s eyes narrowed, and she gave Selena a measured look —

— and then sheathed her sword. “You are right. You don’t need a staff, but you should have one. I cannot protect you. Maker knows what we will face, and…” She looked at the dead man. “Your life is threatened enough as it is.”

The Seeker hooked her the toe of her boot under the staff’s handle, and lifted it. Selena took it, feeling her fingers close around the warped wood. It looked like a rebel’s staff — quickly and crudely constructed. Staffs hadn’t always been like that. They used to take time, and attention and care to craft. To find the right wood, the right metal, and the patience to shape each, as long as it took, as many times as it took, until it was _right_. Staffs had mattered once. Then the war had come, and they had become simply weapons.

Selena gripped it one-handed, and used the staff to force herself to her feet. The Seeker, taking Selena’s arm, helped her up. “This is only until the Breach is sealed.”

Selena fought the urge to lean the rest of her weight against the staff, to rest against it. “I understand.”

The Seeker looked Selena over and, with a brief nod, turned to cross the river — then paused.   “I should remember you agreed to come willingly,” she said haltingly over her shoulder, and for a moment there was something in her expression that wasn’t anger. Then she straightened, and it was gone. “Come. It’s not far.”


	4. Chapter 4

Having the staff helped. To walk, and to fight — and they had to fight, for every foot, every rise. Over the mountain, the Breach shifted and danced, and rained down those terrible, glowing arcs that cut through the sky and seeded the valley with demons.

The Seeker kept Selena behind her as they picked their way over banks along the frozen river. She did not say anything about the bodies they found, half-buried in the snow or sprawled along the ice. Most wore armor and weapons, but some simply had Chantry robes, their skin pale and blue, and their eyes dulled and lifeless.

She didn’t say anything, but she would stop and search the bodies for anything useful. Healing potions, for the most part. “Here.” The Seeker handed her a bottle, then jammed several others into her pockets. “Elfroot, for the most part. It may help,” she said, nodding to Selena’s hand.

“Thank you,” Selena said, and the Seeker snapped, “Do not _thank_ me. You are my prisoner, I am your guard — I am doing what I can to keep you alive because I need you. This is not a _kindness_ — I am not doing this to be kind, nor for _thanks_.”

There was a moment of brittle silence. Then the Seeker said, levelly, “Drink.”

Selena drank. The potion was icy from lying in the snow, but had the sweet, soothing vegetable taste of elfroot. Her stomach, empty — grown used to being empty — wrenched as the first slow slither of elfroot settled inside it. For one blissful moment it dulled the fangs of pain, enough that she could feel her fingers, move them.

“Better?” the Seeker asked.

“Yes,” Selena said, and stopped the _thank you_ in time.

“Good.” The Seeker stood.

They moved on.

 

* * *

 

 

“Are these all your soldiers?” Selena asked. They had stopped by another body.

“No.” The Seeker’s movements were brisk and efficient. Belt, pockets, pat-down.

“Where are they? The rest of your soldiers?” The side of her face was growing stiff and sticky as the blood dried; it pulled at her skin oddly as she spoke. But the pain on her forehead, where she’d struck it from the bridge, had settled and was slowly numbing in the frigid air.

“At the forward camp, or fighting. We are on our own. For now. Come — ”

This time it was Selena who caught the Seeker’s arm, pulled her back, cut off her angry exclamation. “There! From the Breach!” She pointed, following the green bolt that shot out of the Breach, dropping through the air with — Selena could _swear_ it was with purpose. She pulled the Seeker, harder, unthinking, pain lancing through her as they fell, rolling down the ice. The green arc cut into the river just where they had been standing, bubbling black.

The Seeker was up again immediately, launching herself to her feet, her hand flexing on her sword.   She rushed forward, bellowing at the shade as it clawed its way free. It twisted to follow her, lashing out.

Selena scraped, fought her way to her feet, and reached out through the staff to the ice. Felt it build inside her. Felt the river under her, frozen solid, all the way down to the riverbed, and, lashing out, forced it apart — just underneath the shade. It tumbled awkwardly as the ice fractured, cracked open, and the Seeker’s blade was there, red-black with demon blood, cutting cleanly through its neck.

The Seeker wiped her sword before sheathing it and crossed to Selena. “We are not far now."

Selena swallowed. “I know.”

The Seeker lifted her brows. “You do?”

“I can — feel it.”   In her hand — Maker, her entire _arm_ now — thrumming, like a single note hanging in the air.  Selena nodded to a hill, rising up over the river. There was a stone staircase cut into the side.  "It's there."

“Yes,” the Seeker said.

“We should hurry.”

“Yes.”

 

* * *

 

They heard it as they climbed the long staircase up the hill. The clash of metal. The unnatural shriek of demons, reverberating in the air. “Who’s fighting?” Selena gasped.

“The last of our soldiers here and — volunteers. You will see soon. Their orders were to contain the rift until we arrived. We must help them.”

Selena pushed, harder, up the last few steps, where a short path led to broken ruins. Where men were fighting — screams — blood — demons — _the rift_. It hung like a shard in the sky, power gleaming along its shifting, fractured edges. Selena heard it humming, felt it thrum once, like a note from a plucked string, as it…recognized her. It vibrated along her arm, and her hand _ached,_ wanted reach out towards it. She felt it, and it felt wrong, wrong, _wrong_ , the pain, the hum of it, forcing its way under her skin, pulling at her muscles. The Seeker jerked her forwards, but Selena was already pushing herself forward, leaning heavily on the staff, the Seeker just abreast of her, cutting down any demon that came too close.

“Solas!” The Seeker’s voice rang out over the fighting. “We’re here!”

A shade flowed towards them, talons slashing — then jerked back even as the Seeker brought her sword down, an arrow bolted into its forehead. Just above the din, there was a jovial: “Duck, sweetheart!”

“Quickly! Before more come through!” A hand closed over Selena’s wrist — her left wrist — and she couldn’t, couldn’t, scream because the pain was beyond thought, beyond sound — and a tall, thin elf thrust her hand towards the rift.

It poured out of her — her hand — _the mark_ — out of her and into the rift. Power — raw green brilliant crackling power — don’t — it rocketed through her like quicksilver — her arm — her _head_ — until she could feel it in every fiber, don’t scream don’t scream don’t — Maker — _don’t_ — but she could feel it building, inside of her, in the rift, screaming, the rift was _screaming_ , the power pouring out of her until she was going to shatter until —

There was a tug, like the anchor at the end of a rope. _A rope._ She felt it sink into her chest and instinctively pulled.

The rift shattered. The power around it snapping — closed, she thought — and the green glow of it drifting into cloudy grey skies.

There was a moment of echoing silence, then the Seeker let out a short, sharp breath. “It worked.” Her harsh features lit with triumph. “It _worked_.”

“So it appears.” The elf let go of Selena’s wrist and regarded her with a pleasant, if neutral expression. “How are you feeling?”

“I…” She stopped, considering. The shockwaves of the rift…no, not breaking. She had felt the release, the pain of it, but it hadn’t been a simple matter of destroying the rift. It was more like when Ewan had dislocated his shoulder, and the healer they’d found had needed her help to set it back into place. That moment when the bone had found its way back into the joint. The aftershocks still rippled through her, but they were fading, and with it the growing ache in her hand, her arm. The absence felt strange. Her head felt clearer, it was easier to focus, and that felt strange, too. “Better. Thank you. What did you do?”

“Idid nothing. The credit is yours.”

“You mean this.” The mark on her hand was quieter now, its glow muted for the moment, and calm.

“I do. Whatever magic opened the Breach also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake.” He smiled. “It seems I was correct.”

The Seeker crossed to them. “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself.”

“Possibly. It seems you hold the key to our salvation,” he remarked to Selena.

The Seeker sighed. “Thank the Maker.”

There was a laugh behind them, at once good-humored and bitter. A dwarf, clean-shaven, coat and shirt thrown open in defiance of the cold, was crouched over a couple of the fallen soldiers. “Good to know! Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” He pushed himself up, clapping the last traces of demon off his coat, and turned to Selena. She felt herself weighed and measured in one swift, penetrating glance. Then, to her utter surprise, he crossed over and held out a hand. “I suppose if we’re going to have to play nice, we might as well be introduced. Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and — occasionally — unwelcome tagalong.” This last was directed, with a wink, towards the Seeker. “And you’re the lady with the glowing hand.”

“I am.” Breeding had Selena reaching out, shaking his hand, the single gesture nearly as unnerving as closing the rift after the glares of Haven. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Master Tethras.”

He grinned. “Everyone I kill demons with calls me Varric.”

“Varric.” Selena managed a nod. “You’re…with the Chantry?”

“Was that a serious question?” the elf asked, humor flickering across his face.

“Technically I’m a prisoner, just like you. Well, not just like you,” Varric added wryly. “I doubt anyone other than the Seeker here and maybe a couple of my friends in the Merchant’s Guild want to see me dead.”

“You are _not_ a prisoner, Varric,” the Seeker said. “I brought you here as a guest of the Most Holy — ”

“That’s how you treat your _guests_?”

“ — so that she might hear your story. Clearly that is no longer necessary.”

“Meaning what? I’m free to go? Just run off into the valley full of demons?” Varric shook his head. “Thanks, but I think I’ll take my chances with you fellows.”

“Absolutely _not_ ,” the Seeker returned. “Your help is — ”

“Needed desperately.”

“ — _appreciated_ , Varric, but not necessary.”

Varric crossed his arms over his chest, smirking. “Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need every warm body you can get. Fortunately, I just happened to be dragged here against my will, and don’t have anything much to do.”

“If there are to be introductions,” the elf cut in smoothly, before the Seeker could retaliate, “then please allow me to go next. My name is Solas.”

Varric laughed. “Smooth, Chuckles.”

Solas simply smiled. “I’d like to think so.” He regarded Selena expectantly.

“Selena,” she said quickly.

Solas inclined his head. “Selena. I am pleased to see you still live. I was not entirely certain you would survive whatever it was that happened to you at the Temple.”

Varric snorted. “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept. Be impressed.’”

“I — then I owe you my thanks,” Selena said. She could already feel the ache coming back into her fingers.

Solas smiled, but said, “That is gracious of you, but your thanks may be unnecessary. You have not survived yet. I was able to check your mark before, with healing magics and minor wards — nothing too difficult — but I fear it is now past the point where those will help you. As the Breach grows, so does the mark, and if we cannot stop the one, the other will kill you. The Chantry will not need to worry about making an example of you.”

“The Chantry will not _make an example_ of anyone,” the Seeker replied sharply. “If this woman was not culpable of what happened at the Conclave, then she has nothing to fear.”

“I am sure she doesn’t.” Solas gave Selena a critical look, and arched an eyebrow at the Seeker. “If I may?” Without waiting for her reply, he took Selena’s chin between his fingers and turned her head to peer at the wound on her forehead. “You should have let me see to this, Cassandra. I told you needle and thread was crude and inefficient; the merest little blow tears them open,” he added, the venom in his words belied by the calm.

Selena took his wrist and pulled his hand away. Five months since the tower, and she still hadn’t grown used to how people simply…touched outside the Circle. “It was an accident.”

“I’m sure that it was.”

“I fell off a bridge.” When Varric laughed, she let herself smile. “And then there was a demon. Several, actually, and — it’s been rather a long day.”

“So it seems.” Solas waved a thin hand at her forehead. “I will attend to that later, if we can manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process.”

“You’re all heart, Chuckles,” Varric remarked.

“Your sarcasm does you credit, I am sure, Master Dwarf.”

“ _My_ sarcasm?”

Solas merely smiled in return. It was the way he held himself, straight and tall and levelly, that had Selena regarding him closer.

She hadn’t known many elves. She remembered there had been a few, servants, in her father’s house, but in the Circle the Tranquil attended to everything. A few of the apprentices from Ostwick came from the alienages, but Solas didn’t hold himself like one of them. That life, it seemed, beat a certain way of moving into the poor, wearied souls that lived there — a hunched-shouldered wariness that could flash into fight-or-flight stillness in an instant. Those apprentices tended to speak quietly and not look people in the eye, except for one very angry one, who had argued with the enchanters, and snapped at the Templars, and threw himself from the tower when the First Enchanter agreed he should be made Tranquil.

Dalish, Selena thought. Made herself think. No, he wasn’t Dalish, or at least he didn’t seem Dalish — not that she had ever met any of the clans, living away in the Circle. After the Circle, they had met hunters once or twice. Only fleetingly, and usually to warn them away from their lands, but one hunter had taken pity on them. He had come upon them in the woods, having heard Lilywell crying — in hunger, always, then, in hunger — and had given them part of his kill and showed them where to search for nuts. But Solas didn’t seem like them either. It wasn’t just that his face wasn’t tattooed, or that his clothes, well-worn and durable, were like any other traveler’s.

Or that the weathered staff in his hand was no simple walking stick.

She looked back up at him. Solas was watching her…watch him, a faint smile in his eyes. Selena braced herself, and refused to look away.

Tall, she thought. He was very tall. Or, at least, he seemed tall. She realized, watching him watch her watch him, that he wasn’t much taller than she was. Rather something about him gave the impression of height. Of distance.

She said, “You seem to know a great deal about it all.”

“Solas is an apostate,” the Seeker informed her, “and well-versed in such matters.”

“Technically all mages are now apostates,” Solas replied. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, however, far beyond the experiences of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach.”

“That’s — ” Selena had to pause as the ache in her hand took on an edge and _cut_. “ — that was commendable of you.”

“Brave, do you mean?” He gave a smooth little shrug. “Perhaps. Or perhaps merely sensible, although sense appears to be in short supply at the moment. If the Breach is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

Solas turned to the Seeker. “Cassandra. You should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner is a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine _any_ mage having such power.”

The Seeker’s eyes regarded Selena for a moment. “Understood. We must get to the forward camp quickly. This way,” she informed them, climbing effortlessly around a barricade. “The road ahead is blocked.”

Solas followed, taking the pile of wreckage in a single lithe leap.

Selena found Varric looked up at her. He shrugged. “Well. Bianca’s excited.”

“Bianca?” she repeated, and he grinned and jerked a thumb at the crossbow holstered on his back. “You named your crossbow Bianca?”

“Just one of my charming little quirks,” Varric said, climbing over the barricade. “C’mon. Don’t want to keep the demons waiting.”


	5. Chapter 5

Selena felt the rift before they saw it. They weren't running; Selena couldn't manage a run, with the mark rapidly overcoming whatever relief she'd gotten from sealing the first rift. But she was moving as quickly as she was capable, and knew the others were keeping pace with her.

They only had to stop for demons twice, which, as Varric had noted, wasn't too bad.

They were nearing the forward camp, the Seeker informed them, when Selena's mark sparked and there was the thrum reverberating through the air. The sense of recognition. The pull, up ahead beyond the trees, and her legs were pumping, the air raw in her chest, and the stitch in her side...that was not entirely from her muscles. Then the path curved and the trees stretched away and — _there._ Hanging in the air. Blocking the way.

It hummed. She hadn't heard it before, over the sounds of fighting, but it was there. Eerie, otherworldly, it teased at the back of her mind, like a song just on the edge of memory. A song that buzzed along her teeth, grated her bones like a file. And then the sudden cracking as the rift shifted. Demons bloomed up underneath it, screaming — why did they always scream? She heard, dimly, Cassandra's yells, and Varric's laughter as they launched themselves at the demons.

The rift pulsed as Selena pushed herself towards it, the power rocketing up her arm, and _pain_ lanced into her — pain like diamonds, bright and brilliant and cutting through her so cleanly it made the word _sharp_ a mockery. It stabbed her, staggered her, but Selena knew how a person could grow accustomed to anything if given time. If they needed to. Hunger, tiredness, pain; you grew used to it and you grew to use it. She forced herself up, onwards, towards the rift, forced her hand out, reaching for it. The power crackled over her palm, dancing along her fingers, and she pushed — _she_ pushed — and the power burst free, streaming towards the rift, the scream of it building, in her head, her chest, until it drowned all else, until —

_There_. The hook, the little tug she had felt before. She pulled. Hard.

The rift shattered. Black, oily smoke coiled, stretched, and dissipated, and the green glow faded from the sky.

Selena fought the urge to sigh, to tilt her head back and give into the sense of relief. The luxury of having her mind be her own again.

Varric whistled. "Whatever that thing on your hand is, it's useful."

"Indeed," Solas remarked. He nodded at Selena. "Excellent work. And you look…improved."

"It helps. Sealing the rifts," she said.

"Interesting. I wonder if sealing these rifts has any impact on the Breach itself."

"We can only hope that it does," the Seeker said, marching forward. She called out for someone to "open the gate!" and Selena realized they had reached the forward camp.

The camp, what appeared to be left of it, was on another bridge leading to the mountain, and beyond that, the Temple. There were more soldiers here, clipping on armor, oiling their swords. To one side, a dark-haired healer attended to a knot of bleeding and injured men, her sleeves rolled up and her hands bare in spite of the cold.

The Seeker led them through the camp quickly. She didn't smile, but her eyes warmed and she made a sound — something like relief, swallowed back at the last moment — when she caught sight of the hooded woman, deep in discussion with an older man in Chantry robes. "Thank goodness. Leliana."

"You're surprised?" Varric asked.

"No. Not surprised. Only thankful." The Seeker shifted, straightening her shoulders. "There were a great many demons on our way here."

"Nightingale's resourceful, Seeker. Honestly, I'd be surprised if she wasn't here."

The man was bent over a table strewn with maps. He was well past middle-age, though perhaps that was simply the exhaustion. It radiated from him, carved deep lines in his face and smudged dark circles under his eyes. His robes, more ornate than a simple Chantry father's, were well-tended and, for the most part, clean. Except for the splatter of blood along one side. It was old, long dried and rusted, and stood out starkly against the white fabric.

He straightened when the Seeker stopped in front of him, his eyes narrowing. "So. You made it through the valley."

"I told you to have faith, Chancellor." But the woman's — Leliana's focus was on the Seeker. She lifted her brows.

The Seeker nodded fiercely. "It _works_. Her mark sealed the rift."

A slight smile curved Leliana's mouth, and her blue eyes rested on Selena for a moment, studying her. Everyone did that, Selena realized. They looked at her like she was a puzzle, or a trap. "Chancellor Roderick, this is — "

"I know who that is," the Chancellor interrupted, his attention focused on the Seeker. "Seeker Pentaghast, you will return this this criminal to the cells at Haven until such time as you can escort her to Val Royeux to face execution."

Beside her, Varric shook his head. "I have to say, that's just about the dumbest thing I've heard in a good long while. Is he serious, Seeker?"

"I am perfectly serious," the Chancellor snapped. "As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you — "

"You ' _order me_ '?" the Seeker spat out. "You are a glorified clerk. A _bureaucrat_." Coming from her mouth it was an obscenity.

"And you are a thug," the Chancellor returned, "but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry. In this matter the will of the Chantry is clear."

"We serve the Most Holy," Leliana said, steel underneath the silk words, "as you well know."

"Justinia is _dead_. We must elect a replacement, and obey her orders on the matter. Until then — "

"Until then, perhaps you should not be so eager to order this woman's execution yourself," Solas offered. "What evidence have you that she is even responsible for what occurred at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?"

The Chancellor's face flushed. "Evidence?"

"Yes," Solas answered evenly. He gave the Chancellor a thin smile. "It is an ancient elven custom, though perhaps you may have heard of it. When a person is charged with a crime, there must be evidence brought against them to prove that claim. Otherwise it simply words and malice."

"She was found alive at the Temple of Sacred Ashes — the only one alive!"

"How fortunate for her that she was."

The Chancellor drew himself up. "You are that apostate."

"I am."

"Your assistance is appreciated, but your opinions on this matter are hardly relevant — "

" _Enough._ " Seeker Pentaghast slammed her hand down on the table, overriding whatever the Chancellor was going to say. "This woman is in _my_ charge. If she is guilty, I will carry out the sentence myself — "

"'If,'" Leliana echoed.

" — but that will be determined later, by a trial. With evidence," she said pointedly to Solas. The Seeker turned to Selena. "There will be a trial. I promise you that. I can promise no more."

A trial. Don't think about that. Focus on the cold. The ice. Here on the bridge, the wind was a barbed whip, ripping through them. Focus on the ice. Plate it around yourself like armor. "I understand," Selena said, but it was barely true. Stop. Focus. "Until then, isn't closing the Breach the more pressing issue?"

"Yes," the Seeker said. "It is."

"The Breach she brought on us in the first place!" the Chancellor spat out, jabbing an angry finger at Selena though he refused to look at her. "This woman destroyed the Conclave, tore open the sky — she caused that Breach, and now you trust her to help you fix it? Give up this foolishness, Cassandra," he continued. "Call a retreat. Our position here is hopeless."

"I will _not_. We can stop this before it is too late."

The Chancellor rubbed his face. "How?" he asked, and the anger drained out of his voice, leaving only weariness. "You won't survive the valley long enough to reach the Temple, even with all your soldiers."

"We will," the Seeker insisted. "We must. The prisoner must get to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It is our only chance."

"You have already caused enough trouble without resorting to this exercise in futility!"

" _I_ have caused trouble?"

Sister Leliana intervened. "The Grand Chancellor is right. The valley is too dangerous. However," she went on, holding up a hand and pitching her voice over the Seeker's protest. "A small group can cut through the mountains, using the old mining tunnels, and reach the Temple unnoticed while our forces can charge as a distraction."

The Seeker shook her head. "It is too risky. We lost contact with an entire squad on that mountain."

"How many?" The question was out before Selena could stop it. Leliana glanced at her, the hood shadowing much of her expression. "In the squad. How many people is that?"

"Seven," Leliana said. "We sent them to scout the pass yesterday morning, and report back."

"Which they should have done by now," the Seeker said.

"But we could find them if we went through the mountain," Selena said. "They could still be alive."

"Perhaps," Leliana said. "But most likely not."

"Likely doesn't mean definitely, Sister. You're not really suggesting you just abandon your own people?" Varric demanded.

The Seeker's jaw clenched, making the angry scars on her face stand out even more. "It is not something we suggest lightly. Unfortunately, Leliana is right. The chance that they are still alive — "

"You can't simply leave them there," Selena insisted, fighting to keep the — panic? Anger? Whatever it was, it clawed its way up her belly and seized her by the throat. Calm. She had to stay calm.

_You can't go back in there_ , Gwen had said, and grabbed her arm when she stood to do just that. _Selena!_

Selena pushed the memory away. "If there's any chance — "

"No one asked the prisoner for her opinion," the Chancellor cut in.

"Perhaps you should," Solas said. "She bears the mark."

"No one asked the apostate, either — "

"And she is the one we must keep alive," the Seeker agreed, overriding the Chancellor. "And it seems we cannot agree on our own. I see no reason why her opinion should not be taken into account. I believe we all know what's at stake."

"Well, if it counts for anything," Varric said, "I'm with my fellow prisoner on this. If there's a chance we could find any of those scouts alive, we should take it. We've lost too many damn people already."

"More losses is exactly what I'm trying to prevent! Cassandra, please — listen to me." The Chancellor rubbed a hand over his face, and for a moment there was no pride or anger, only a plea. "Call your soldiers back. Abandon this now before more lives are lost."

The Breach flared.

The force of it rumbled through the sky like thunder, rocking the earth underfoot and shuddering through camp. Boxes rocked over onto their sides, and bottles skittered and smashed against stonework. People fought to stay on their feet, and there was a crash as one soldier pitched forward into a row of shields. Down the camp, some ways behind them, the healer's voice snapped through the wind, "Dammit, Pip!" and a plaintive, "I'm sorry! Oh, Maker, I'm sorry!"

Selena felt the pulse ring throughout her entire body as her hand sparked in response. It was more than the pain; it was the _pull,_ singing along bone and fiber, centered on the mark. Pulling towards _it_. Selena gripped her wrist with her good hand and struggled to pull back, her muscles clenched and straining. Gritting her teeth, she managed to close the fingers of her left hand over her mark. She couldn't pull back, but she held on.

"Varric's right," she said quietly as the pulse faded. Feeling the ache seep through her, settle into muscle and bone. "Too many people have died already." Selena flexed her fingers, watching the power snap along her skin.

She looked at the Seeker. "I'm going up the mountain. You can stop me, or you can come with me."

The Seeker regarded her for a weighted moment. "Leliana. We are going through the mountain."

Leliana inclined her head. "Understood."

"Inform the Commander. And bring everyone left in the valley. Everyone."

"Cassandra." The Chancellor tried to step in front of the Seeker, but she pushed past him and headed for the gate. "On your head be the consequences, Seeker!" he called after them.

The Seeker did not respond.

 

* * *

 

The path from the camp wound up to the mountain like a snake, twisting and treacherous, cutting off at the jagged face of the mountain where a network of platforms and ladders was hammered into the rock. The layered foundation stones were caked with snow, and the solid, wooden framework weathered and gone dull with age, and nearly petrified in the cold.

The Seeker gripped the ladder and tested it. It didn't budge. "The entrance to the tunnel is overhead. The path to the Temple lies just beyond it."

Solas hooked his staff to the pack he was carrying, and leapt deftly up the ladder to the first platform. "It seems secure enough," he called down.

"Show off," Varric muttered.

"What was that, Master Dwarf?"

Varric tipped his head back to grin up at the elf. "I said you're a show off!"

"Merely braving the forefront!" Solas called back amiably. "You are very welcome to go first, if you like — though, may I remind you, something has detained Cassandra's fine soldiers!"

Varric shook his head and started climbing.

Selena briskly secured her staff and stepped up to the ladder, flexing and clenching her fingers.

"Your hand?" the Seeker asked.

"It'll hold." She gripped the first rung. Began to climb.

Not as bad as she expected. Her fingers, her arm — up into her shoulder now — it was bad, but they obeyed her. She climbed quickly, not giving a chance to grow worse, for the ache, the pain, to grow any faster than it already was.

Still, it was a relief when Varric's hand clapped onto her arm and helped haul her up the rest of the way. "Thank you."

He shrugged, glancing after Solas, who was already springing up the ladder to the next platform. "Just extending a simple courtesy to my fellow prisoner," he said, taking hold of the next ladder as the Seeker heaved herself onto the platform. "You're awful polite for someone who's been accused of mass murder."

The cold she felt then had nothing to do with the wind or snow. "You've been awfully kind to someone accused of mass murder."

"That's me. Kind, thoughtful, compassionate — "

"Humble." Solas' voice drifted down.

" — and, above all, humble Varric Tethras. And…" He hauled himself up onto the next platform and stood for a moment, looking out over the valley. "Maybe you did kill all those people. Maybe you didn't. Let's just say I've got some experience with someone being held responsible for all the shit that went wrong because they were in a bad place at a worse time."

Selena pushed herself up after him, feeling the ache spread down her shoulders, along the muscles of her back. Feeling its claws sharpen, just past the edge of pain. Waiting. For the moment when she moved too quickly. When she stopped thinking and forgot to be careful. Waiting to dig in and sink deep.

She had to fight back the relief as Varric got hold of her arm and helped her onto the next platform. "Looks like it hurts."

Selena swallowed. "It does."

"All the more reason we should move quickly," the Seeker said, climbing up behind them. She glanced down at the valley. "Come. Leliana's people are already on the move."

Selena followed the Seeker's gaze, and saw the valley below stretching out endlessly beneath her, saw the tiny figures running along the snow, and for one dizzying moment felt the sheer, massive sense of _space_ stretching out all around her. She was standing on a slim platform, hammered into the side of a mountain, with nothing but the sky in front of her and the depth of the valley beneath.

Selena turned away. Solas was waiting just down the platform, where it widened and stopped at a doorway, a simple wide arch cut into the side of the mountain. "Leliana said this was a mine?" he asked as the Seeker approached.

"Part of an old mining complex. These mountains are full of such paths. We hoped to make use of them, but…" She headed into the mine.

Inside it was dark, and only warmer because it was out of the wind. The light from the doorway dimly outlined pillars and piled boxes, and the thick layer of dust coating the floor. The air was still and stale, smelling of dust and…copper. Rust.

Selena knew that scent.

Light flared as the Seeker lit a torch, the iron sconce protesting as she wedged it free.

"But your scouts didn't report back," Varric finished.

"They did not. They came through here, though. Footprints," she said, nodding to where the dust was smudged along the floor. "And there." The Seeker held the torch out, and the flickering light gleamed along an oily, blackish puddle. There was a smooth, silken sound as the Seeker drew her sword. "Demons."

"At least now we know what it was that detained them." Solas' voice echoed through the stillness, like ripples on a pond.

Varric laughed. "Always looking on the bright side. That's what I like about you, Chuckles."

But Selena was shaking her head, because it wasn't — the torchlight flickered, shifting the shadows, and caught something else — it wasn't _only_ demon. Something dark and sticky-looking and _red_ , and Selena was rushing forward, dodging when the Seeker tried to block her way. Her hand sparked, turning the shadows green and making them dance. She saw the boots in the shadows. The limp, pale hands. The…

Selena tried to breathe in, slow and steady, through her mouth, but that was a mistake because blood had a smell to it. A flavor. The cold had dulled it, but it was there. A ghost in the shadows, sharp with the taste of copper. She clenched her hand into a fist, and for once she welcomed the pain.

"Well, shit," Varric said.

Not the same, she told herself. It was not the same. It was dark, and there were walls, and there was…blood, _so much blood_ , but it was not the same. That man — whatever had done that to him — it was not human.

"An unpleasant sight." Solas' voice was at her shoulder.

She said _yes._ She thought she did _._ She could feel the walls around her. Feel the weight of them pressing in on her. _Stop it_. This wasn't the tower. She had seen bodies before. Stop standing here. The Breach. Think of the Breach. She could feel it ahead of her, the pull of it dragging at her even here, through the rock and weight of the mountain. They had to close the Breach, and the mark on her hand was the only damn thing that could do it.

Selena took a breath; the blood-tinged air slid along her throat like silk. "It's that way."

"I believe it is," said Solas.

 

* * *

 

It didn't take long — just a few corners, and a few corridors along the edge of the complex, and they were moving fast. Selena made herself move fast. The mine had clearly been abandoned, but someone, likely the scouts, had cleared a way through, shifting the worst of the boxes and ancient scaffolding, and hung Chantry flags as a guide to mark the way.

They found more blood. Demon's. For the most part.

The blood was all they found, until they found the door to the other side of the mountain. A small staircase led up out of the mine; Selena took it three steps at a time, pushing past the pain that cleaved its way through her chest now, forcing herself faster even when her feet caught and stumbled, and ignoring Varric's, "Hey, maybe you want to slow down a bit."

Outside, she stopped. The light was bright, and the air was cold and clear. And the three soldiers in the snow were clearly dead.

"Shit." Varric sighed, kneeling down to check the bodies. "Guess we found your soldiers, Seeker."

But the Seeker shook her head and pushed past them, tossing the torch into the snow unheeded as she swung the shield off her back and charged.

Varric stood, unhooking Bianca and flicking off the safety in one smooth movement.

Selena heard it, too. Above the wind. The clash of metal and the chillingly familiar shriek of demons. And, down in her bones, the hum of a rift.

She was running.

The three scouts were pinned on an overlook, the rift just above them and demons all around, clawing their way free of the Fade each time the rift spat and shifted.

Selena lashed out, thrusting her hand towards the rift and her mark flaring as the power burst free before she had time to think. It wasn't thinking — it was simply action — that wasn't control, she needed to have _control_ — and the terror of it raced through her even as the power whipped out and caught hold of the rift.

The rift shuddered and snapped, like a wounded animal, and the force of it broke the current coming from her mark, knocking her back into the snow and making the demons — stop. They stilled, talons paused in mid-air, shrieks dying away, and looked…confused. If demons could be confused.

It was only a moment, but it was enough. The Seeker was there with her sword and shield, and Solas, wielding his staff like a bard. And behind it all was the constant _chunk chunk chunk_ of Varric's Bianca.

Selena pushed herself to her feet and — steady — _think_ — reached out again. Pushed. Controlled it. She could control it. She was ready for the pain this time. For the torrential rush of power, burning through her. Feel the ache growing in her chest, pulling her, pulling _at_ her —

Focus on the rift. This rift.

But that pull wasn't coming from _this_ rift. It was coming from somewhere else, somewhere just down the mountain, but she could feel it through the rift. She sensed the shape of it — huge and terrible — and sucking her in.

_Focus._

She felt the tension in the rift climbing, coiling, the hum building into a scream, until the moment when it would snap, when —

_There_.

She pulled hard. Too hard. The rift shattered, the aftershock blasting back at her, and dropping her to her knees.

Solas surveyed the clearing stretch of sky where the rift had been. "Sealed, as before. You are becoming quite proficient at this."

"Keep that up, Chuckles, and it's going to sound like you're actually impressed," Varric tossed back as he shouldered his crossbow and headed towards the scouts.

"I am. And…" Solas appeared to consider this for a moment, before selecting: "Pleased. The more proficient you grow at this, the better chance there is that you may yet survive the Breach."

"That isn't the same as good," Selena said, fighting the urge to gasp for air. Here, out of the mines, the cold was unforgiving. It had felt better before, when she'd closed the other rifts. Why didn't it feel better now? There was still the pain, the pull, there was always, _always_ , the pull, dragging at her, towards —

She shivered. It was still there, the sense of the Breach she'd gotten through that rift. The shape of it. The sheer, impossible feeling of _size_.

She was leaning against the staff so heavily the rough wood of the handle was digging into her shoulder. Selena forced herself to swallow. She would _not_ collapse. "How are they?" She nodded to the scouts.

"They are well," Solas said, barely glancing at them, even as the Seeker called back, "Solas!"

"If you will excuse me." Solas crossed to the Seeker, who was bending over one of the scouts, pressing hard on the woman's arm. The Seeker glanced at Solas as he knelt down beside her and tore the scout's sleeve open to expose the wound on her arm. "These injuries are not minor," Solas said, not looking up from his work. "Yet she will survive."

The Seeker stepped away. "I'm glad to see you're alive, Lieutenant."

The scout grinned up through the blood on her face. "Just barely. Is that bad?" she asked Solas, peering at her arm.

"Yes," he said.

"It looks bad," she agreed cheerfully. "That's a lot of blood."

Varric was attending to one of the other scouts with a straight-forward efficiency. The last one was leaning against a rock, looking more angry than hurt, in spite of his leg, which was bleeding freely. It looked like something — talons perhaps — had caught onto his boot and simply clawed through. Selena crossed to him and managed, barely, not to simply drop down. "How is that?"

He grimaced. "Got me in my fucking leg. Be all right," he bit off. "Just pissed off. Serves me fucking right. An amateur move — getting distracted like that." He peered at her closely. "Don't see tears in the fucking sky every day, though, do you? Or girls wiggling their fingers and blasting them to fucking pieces."

Selena unwound her scarf from around her neck. It would have to do; she didn't have any other bandages. "I suppose you don't."

"You're her, aren't you? From the Conclave. The spellbind who killed the Divine." His brow furrowed. "They let you go?"

She wrapped the scarf around his leg, making sure it was pulled taut to slow the bleeding, and bound the ends. She could feel the Seeker looking at her. "This should hold, at least until you get back to camp. But you'll need to have a proper healer look at it. I'm afraid I can't do much more."

"Nor do we have time for it if you could," Solas said, rising. "Our priority must be the Breach. Unless we seal it soon, no one is safe."

The Seeker helped the woman to her feet; she swayed a bit, still grinning. "Thank the Maker you finally found us, Lady Cassandra. I don't think we could have held out much longer."

"Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant." Selena's head snapped up, and she saw the Seeker watching her, and knew she hadn't been able to keep the sudden stab of surprise off her face. "She insisted we come this way," the Seeker continued.

The scout glanced at Selena. "The prisoner? She…" She straightened and saluted, if a bit wobbly. "You have our sincere gratitude."

"Return to camp," the Seeker said. "The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment. Go. While you still can."

"If you're making an attempt on the Breach, my lady — "

"You're injured, Lieutenant, as are your men," the Seeker said firmly. "Go now."

"The path ahead appears to be clear of demons as well," Solas remarked, turning to them as the scouts made their way towards the mine. "We should proceed, before that changes."

Selena pushed herself to her feet, and only realized when she caught the Seeker's pointed look that she had tucked her left hand close against her chest. She tried to straighten her fingers, and the pain lashed out and seized her by the throat. "Do you have any more of that elfroot?"

The Seeker snapped one free from her belt and handed it to Selena. Then took it back and pulled the stopper free for her.

"Thank you." Selena drank. The thick potion coated her throat, and lay like lead in her stomach.

"Better?" When Selena didn't answer, the Seeker took her arm. "Come. We should move quickly."


	6. Chapter 6

Just past the overlook the pass curved, ending abruptly at a cliff with another platform. Ladders. Selena tried to move her fingers, and blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. The ache was everything now, a relentless, stinging pulse, winding her muscles tight as wire.

"I will go first." The Seeker let go of Selena's arm to secure her staff before heading to the ladder. "You will come after me, and go slowly."

"Bossy, isn't she?" Varric muttered.

Selena wanted to say _yes_. Thought she might have said _yes._ The pain was lightning in her lungs, bright and hot with every breath. She tried to smile at Varric as he helped her steady herself on the ladder, made sure she'd gotten a good hold of the first rung — one-handed — and managed to nod.

She went slowly, cautiously, easing down one rung at a time, making certain her feet were secure against one rung before she let go to grab hold of the next. It was difficult. To go slowly — to _make_ herself go slowly — to focus past the pain, past the _pull_ that was filling her mind with the shape and swirl of the Breach.

"So, I gotta ask," Varric called down, his boots thunking down the ladder above her. "Are you innocent?"

Solas laughed. "Was that your attempt at subtlety, Master Dwarf?"

"Subtlety gets in the way too damn often. She doesn't have to answer if she doesn't want to."

Selena's boots hit the next rung harder than she intended, jarring her arm, sending a bright bolt of pain lancing into her. She concentrated on that for a moment, tightening her grip with her good had and wedging her heels into the rung before she eased herself down again. "Would — would you believe me if I said yes?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Seems like kind of odd behavior to go out of your way to save a couple scouts if you blew up an entire Temple."

"Perhaps she is trying to lure us into a false sense of security," Solas remarked.

"Are you?" Varric asked.

Selena didn't answer for a moment. One rung. The next. "I don't remember what happened."

He laughed. "Bet you told them that, too."

"It's the truth," she said stiffly.

"Oh, no. I'm sure it is. No wonder you're in trouble. The truth'll do that to you every time. Should have spun a story."

"That's what _you_ would have done," the Seeker tossed back, and her voice was so close Selena almost turned to look. Then she felt the platform under her boots, the solid, steady planks, and let go of the ladder. Breathed out.

"There is one more," the Seeker said, nodding to the second ladder.

Of course there was.

"I'm just saying." Varric jumped down the last few rungs and landed heavily on the platform. "It's more believable, and less prone to premature execution." He winked at Selena, clapping his hands. "People never believe you when you tell the truth. Something like that…" He waved his hand in the direction of the Breach. "People are never going to be satisfied with 'I don't remember.' It's not like holes in the Fade just _accidentally_ happen, right?"

Solas slid lightly down the ladder and landed without a sound. "If enough magic is brought to bear, it _is_ possible."

"But there are easier ways to make things explode. Ways that don't involve tearing open the damn sky."

"That is true."

The Seeker swung herself onto the next ladder and began to climb quickly. "We will consider _how_ this happened once the immediate danger is past."

"That's assuming we're all still around to consider it," Varric tossed back as he helped Selena settled herself on the second ladder. "Which, all things considered, isn't looking that likely."

"Where is your optimism?" Solas said. "After all, we have an — "

_Intruder._

She felt the Breach pulse. Power bolted through her, and her fingers spasmed and let go of the ladder. Gravity shot her down for a stomach-plummeting moment, but she managed to grab hold, barely, with her good hand, jerking to a sudden stop that had her head smacking against the wooden rungs. Selena wedged her boots against a rung and, resting her forehead against the ladder, let out a shaky breath.

"You okay?" Varric called.

She nodded vaguely; it was easier than speaking. Breathed in. Out. She couldn't feel her fingers, her arm. She couldn't move her arm. The pain — the pain was — _what was that voice?_ It had echoed through her, rippling along the edges of that pulse, carrying with it a sense of…not simply recognition. Of discovery. As if it had been _looking for her_.

"There are only a few more steps." The Seeker's voice was almost gentle. "Careful."

Selena eased herself down one rung. Another. Then there was rock and snow underfoot, solid and mostly steady, and she forced her shaking fingers to let go of the ladder. She wanted to sit for a moment, to rest, to simply collapse, but knew that if she did she wouldn't have the strength to get back up.

The Seeker was there, taking her arm. Selena struggled against the urge to lean on her. "I'm all right. It just startled me."

"What did?" Varric asked, clambering down the ladder. Solas bypassed the ladder altogether, and simply leapt down next to Varric.

"The voice." At the Seeker's expression, Selena glanced at Solas. "You heard…" She stopped. Fought the urge to rub her chest, because she hadn't heard it so much as felt it. "It said — "

_Intruder._

"No one — no one heard that?" Even she could hear the shrill note in her voice. She tried to swallow it back.

Solas regarded her impassively. "It may be that the Breach is reacting to your mark in some way, as we grow closer to it."

"By talking to me?" In a voice like the heartbeat under a mountain; ancient and deep. It made her skin crawl.

"Perhaps."

"You need a minute?" Varric asked.

"We do not have a minute," the Seeker said. She put an arm under Selena's shoulders and helped her forward.

To the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

 

* * *

 

She had seen it from a distance. She had known it was a black ruin. And seeing it, knowing it, still hadn't prepared her for the Temple itself. What was left of it.

Later, Selena thought, if she survived this, she was going to find a quiet place where she was alone and she would scream and scream. If she survived. But that would be later, because just now, seeing it, the horror of it wrapped around her like a blanket, thick and soft, and allowed her to look at the Temple and feel…nothing.

How long had it been since she'd been here? She hadn't thought to ask, with the dungeons and the chains and the Breach… It felt like yesterday. Like this morning. She had just walked through the doors of the Temple in the sunlight, and now there was nothing but smoke and fire and embers and blackened rock.

She hadn't known. She hadn't understood. No wonder they hated her. No wonder they had tried to kill her.

It was warmer there. Even now…however long had it been…she could feel the warmth radiating up through the soles of her boots, glowing from the jagged, broken rocks that towered up all along the path. Rocks that were black with fire and veined with green, an eerie, glowing green that pulsed softly. Selena felt her hand throb in response.

"There." The Seeker nodded to a patch of crumbling stonework. "That is where you walked out of the Fade and our soldiers found you. The soldiers who found you — they said you…stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious. They said a woman was in the rift behind you. That she appeared to be — "

"Glowing." _Gold and glowing, a light in the dark, her hand reaching out._

"Yes," the Seeker said, after a moment. She kept her focus ahead, and did not look at Selena. "No one knows who she was. The soldiers searched, but found no sign of her. Of anything, other than you. Everything else was laid waste. As you see."

"Yes." Selena did see.

Then they entered the Temple proper and she saw…smoke, saw rubble, charred and broken, saw the scorched and smoking remnants of the Temple — rock and ash and, through the haze, a few smoldering patches of stonework, like a blackened skeleton. There was the flicker of fire through the smoke, and she saw flames — still burning. Parts of it were still burning. Saw the bodies. The ones that survived the blast had been seared to embers, frozen in that moment by fire, arms stretched over their heads, trying to protect themselves, mouths open, screaming — Maker — silently screaming and still burning, some of them were still burning, and _Maker help her_ the smell. That was the smell, of smoke, of burning, of charred meat, _that was the smell on her clothes_ —

Selena didn't realize she had started towards them until the Seeker caught her arm again when she would have fallen. "Can't we — can't — " But then she stopped because she knew it was foolish. She knew they couldn't. There was nothing they could do.

"No, we can't. Not for them." To Selena's surprise, the Seeker gave her…not a smile. But there was a look, a light in her expression that might have been approval. "There is something we can do everyone else. We can seal the Breach."

Selena shook her head, which was a mistake. Her head was thick enough as it was; the movement sent it reeling. She hadn't known they died like that. "Yes. I…yes."

They would have been together. They were always together, since Ostwick. They watched out for each other. Gwen would joke, back…when she could make jokes, that she had to look out for her _little_ brother. It was a joke, because Gwen had been barely older than Ewan; they hadn't been twins, but they'd been near enough as nature could make it. Because Ewan was taller and stronger and heavier. Because he was the one people were wary of. It had been a joke, before…and then afterwards it hadn't been. They stayed together. They were all they had left.

Selena thought, without trying to, without wanting to, if there was anything of them still left. If they were here — please, _please_ — black and twisted. Or if they had been simply burned away.

If it had hurt.

Her hand flared, and Selena jerked her chin to the left, at a small archway that was somehow intact. "That way."

The blast had made a maze of the Temple, the way through twisted with wreckage, and fire, and corpses. They turned a corner, down a corridor that was somehow still standing, and the haze was lit from within by something red. Deep red, and menacing. Through the haze and the glow, Selena saw a cluster of rocks. They radiated a deep, rich red, like blood made light and stone.

Varric said, " _Shit_ ," and the word was so full of shock and confusion and rage that they all stared at him as he ran towards the red rock formation. "Nug-fucking, Maker-damned — whatever you do, don't touch it!" he snapped as Solas came up beside him.

"You know what this is?" Solas asked.

"Yeah. Red lyrium. _Shit_. Seeker."

"I see it, Varric," she said.

"This is bad, Seeker. This is really bad."

"I know."

"So what's it _doing_ here?" Varric demanded, his face red in the glow of the lyrium.

"It is possible that magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the Temple, corrupted it, whenever…this happened." Solas gestured to the wreck and ruin about them.

"It's evil. We need to destroy it. All of it."

"Our first priority must be the Breach." Solas went on, making sure to step carefully around the lyrium. "This can wait."

"If you knew what this stuff is, you wouldn't say that."

"I can judge the gravity of the situation from your reaction, Varric, but I can still safely say that the Breach must come first."

Varric let out a hard breath. "Yeah. Yeah. Andraste's fucking tits." He raked a hand through his tangled hair. "You're right. _Shit_."

 

* * *

  

They found it in the heart of the Temple.

Whatever it had been, it was now a crater, stretching across what must have been the entire Temple, blasted into rock and ruin. Except for a single statue in the center of the crater — Andraste, her face turned up, her hands stretched towards the heavens. And, hovering just out of her reach…

A rift.

The sheer size of it was overwhelming. And the stillness. It didn't shift or crack like the others. It merely hung there, calm and quiet, a river of power flowing from it up into the heavens. Feeding the Breach.

The Breach. Maker. Here, in the heart of the Temple, it filled the sky and blocked out the sun, and there was only cloud and shadow.

Varric let out a low whistle. "That is a long way up."

There was a rush air, movement, behind them, and Leliana was there, a group of soldiers clattering up behind her. They faces were grey with smoke and fatigue, and their armor patchworked and blood-stained.

Leliana took them in. "You're here. Thank the Maker." Her eyes rested briefly on Selena. The way she was leaning heavily against the Seeker for support. "The Commander will give us all the time he can. Are you ready?"

"We are," the Seeker said. "Leliana, have you men take up positions around the Temple. And _no one_ is to touch the red lyrium," she ordered, raising her voice, "under any circumstances." She adjusted her grip around Selena's waist, catching her eye. "This is your chance to end this."

Selena nodded, even as she felt her gaze pulled back to the Breach. The size of it… "I'll try."

"Trying is not enough," Solas said. "You must close it. This rift, it's size, it's connection to the Breach," he waved his staff at the current running between the two, "It must have been the first. If so, I believe it will be the key. Seal it, and we seal the Breach."

The Seeker gave the jagged drop into the crater a measured look. "We need to find a way down. And be careful." There was enough of a ledge around the edge of the crater that they were able to pick their way along.

"Oh, be _careful_ ," Varric muttered as they made their way, carefully, along the edge. There was a small slope where a pillar had fallen; the Seeker helped Selena navigate it. "Oh, that makes sense. Good thing you said something, Seeker."

The air was different in the crater. Charged somehow, and slippery. Selena stepped towards the rift, and felt the Breach flare —

— and then the voice. Echoing out against the rocks, heavy and old, filling the air like a fog. **Now is the hour of our victory.  Bring forth the sacrifice.**

Selena tried to swallow, her mouth dry and tasting of ashes. What —

"What is that?" the Seeker demanded.

"You — " Shock helped Selena force out the words. "You heard that?"

The Seeker nodded sharply. "Yes. What is it? What are we hearing?"

"At a guess?" Solas said coolly. His eyes were fixed on the rift. "The person who created the Breach."

"How are we — " Then the Breach flared again and Selena choked as the _pain_ rushed up and seized her by the throat. Her knees gave out, even as the voice rippled out again, like the toll of a bell.

**Keep the sacrifice still.**

Then, as it faded, another voice. A woman's voice. Pleading. **_Someone help me!_**

The Seeker stiffened. "Divine…that is the Most Holy's voice!"

It echoed out again, ringing off the rocks and ruin, with the sharp thrill of desperation. **_For the love of the Maker_** — ** _please, someone help me!_**

And then, echoing back: **_What's going on here?_**

She — Selena tried to run, her legs pushing, stumbling, falling — she had to get to — she… No, she hadn't said that. She hadn't. But she could still taste them in her throat, the bewilderment, the… _fear_ … Her hand was flaring now, so bright it hurt the eyes, and the rift shifted and flared with it, light pouring into the Temple like water from a pitcher. Selena could feel it sear through her, so bright, all she could see —

_A figure. Dark. Featureless. It towered over her, made of smoke and shadows. The light was all around her, burning bright, but that shape seemed to fill her vision, threatened to block out the sky, until there was only darkness. Only shadows. And…eyes. Eyes like embers, red and burning in the dark._

_It lifted a long-fingered hand. In the air before it, arms bound out to the sides, magic knotted around her like shackles, hung…the Divine. She shone against the darkness, clear and bright as a star, and substantial as a wisp._ _The shadow reached out to her_ —

**_What's going on here?_** _Selena ran…she_ _saw_ _herself run towards them. She saw herself run in through…a door? Heavy, and so old the wood was nearly petrified. She felt the impression against her palms from where she had pushed at it. She looked up_ — _she saw herself look up, and felt her heart hammering in her chest._

_The Divine strained against the magic holding her. It was pitiful how useless it was, though the Divine twisted so hard the fabric of her sleeves tore._ _**Run while you can! Warn them!** _

_The shadow spoke._ **We have an intruder. Kill her. Now.**

_Selena saw the darkness spread, filling the sky, rushing at her —_

Selena sagged to her knees, barely catching herself with her hands. She was in the Temple. The Temple _now_ — black and ruined and burnt. Overhead, the rift had started to shift. Gleaming, sparking, and dimming.

" _You_!" The Seeker turned to her eagerly."You were _there_! Most Holy called out to you!" She seized Selena's arm, hauling her up. "Who attacked? What are we seeing?"

"I don't _remember!_ " It exploded out of her. She had been there — she had _seen_ herself — and she couldn't remember any of it, not even an image, a feeling. As if it had simply been cut from her mind.

"You must! The Divine — is she — was this vision true?"

"I believe that it was." Solas turned away from the rift and drew closer to them. "True but, clearly, not complete. It was an echo of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place. This rift is not sealed," he told Cassandra, "but it is closed, albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side."

"That means demons!" the Seeker called out. She looked from Selena to Solas; he at once shifted his staff and took Selena's arm, giving the Seeker a nod. The Seeker turned her back on them, drawing her sword. "Stand ready!"

"You don't need to carry me," Selena said as the Seeker moved away from them, shouting orders at the soldiers. "I can stand."

"Can you?" he asked. He was holding her lightly, barely seeming to support her, but his arm was like a steel band.

"Yes," she said, and hoped it wasn't a lie. She pulled the staff free, and shifted away to stand on her own. There was an uncertain moment, when her legs had to support her on their own, stiff and trembling; the dented, rusted staff blade struck the rock underfoot harder than she intended. Selena concentrated on that for a moment, wedging it down, gaining purchase to help as she forced herself to stand, every muscle in her body clenched.

The Seeker was shouting orders at the soldiers, who had taken up places around the crater. Leliana was with the archers on the higher level, her posture alone relaxed, her face composed. The rest of the soldiers had taken position in the crater around them, swords, axes — Maker, Selena even saw one broken pike staff — at the ready.

The Seeker surveyed the soldiers, and then caught Selena's eye. Nodded.

Selena glanced at Solas. "How do I open it?" she asked in a low voice.

He gave her an arch look. "How do you close them?"

It was a torment to reach her arm out, to force the muscles to stretch and straighten. The rift shifted above her in response, sharply. It sounded like ice cracking up along a river. Selena felt the power crackling along every fiber, and pushed. Hard. As hard as she could. The rift was so high.

Power rocketed out of her, cutting through the smoke and sky, and she felt it arrow into the rift. She felt the cracks form, and then a seam as the rift shifted. She pushed, focusing on the seam and forcing it open.

She felt the shudder first, rocking the ground underfoot and jolting her back, breaking her connection with the rift. Then there was the roar, ripping through the air.

Then there was the shape, crouched low where it had landed, in front of Andraste's statue. It unfolded up, and out. And up.

Huge. It was so huge, its skin thick and plated like armor, and the horns twisted up from the top of its head just brushing the rift.

In the stillness, as the demon drew itself up, the Seeker's voice rang out. " _Now!"_

The demon turned, focusing on her. And roared. So loud it shook the rocks on the ground. The Seeker launched herself at it, the soldiers following, and as the roar died away there was the soft hiss of arrows.

Selena clenched hand around her staff, frost lacing its way along the handle. Focus —

Solas grabbed her staff and jerked it back, stepping in front of her. "The rift!" he shouted. "Leave the demon to us! You must concentrate on the rift!"

Then Solas shoved her to the ground as the demon picked up one of the soldiers and flung him like a rag doll. He barreled into the archers, striking one, and slammed into the wall of rock behind them. And lay still.

Solas was up again the next instant, his staff glowing blue and blinding as he cast.

Selena pushed herself up. Forced herself to focus on the rift. Angry now. Angry for Gwen and Ewan, for each and every one of those damn corpses, blasted away like they were _nothing_ — tossed aside — and the power was a storm inside her now, lightening along every bone, searing every nerve. Sharp and unforgiving. She reached out again. And unleashed it.

The rift screamed — or she did — the power inside her a living thing, shredding through her as it coursed into the rift, which snapped and reared as if trying to free itself.

She heard shouting. The sounds of the fighting. The whistle of Solas' staff as it sliced through the air.

She saw, dimly, the demon stumble, and drop to one knee. Heard the cry, oddly muffled, as the Seeker charged it, her sword digging deep into its back. It roared and struggled to stand, but the Seeker was forcing herself up towards its shoulders, neck, its head, swinging herself between its horns, and brought her sword down between its eyes. It keened, pitching forward, slamming into the ground.

"Now!" the Seeker yelled. "The rift!"

The current jerked, fighting her, her skin cracking, black and burnt, as the power scalded green trails along her fingers, her hand. The power built — too much, too much now — it was pouring out of her, all of her, she couldn't control it, couldn't couldn't _control_ please Maker like nothing nothing she'd ever — it filled her, her arm, her head, her mind, her _hand_ … Her hand was the only thing she could feel, the only point beyond the pain, the ache even brighter than the agony.

Not enough. It wasn't enough. The pain was so bright, so clear, that she couldn't think, she could only —

The memory surfaced like a shark, striking out suddenly through the pain. Malcolm. Fifteen and grinning as he stood over Willem, victorious for the first time ever. His nose broken and blood running down his face, but grinning. _Doesn't matter if it hurts, silly. Not if you win._

She pushed harder, the pain, the power consuming her. Let it consume her. This had to end. Live or die, this had to _end_.

And finally, fiercely, she felt it. The hook. The moment when _something_ caught hold. She clenched her hand and pulled with everything she was.

_Ther_ —


	7. Chapter 7

_Whenever she thought of Senior Enchanter Maxim, it was in this room._

_It had been a lecture room, once upon a time, but was so scarred and scorched by students' lessons that it had been set aside for practice. It was an old joke among the apprentices that Enchanter Maxim did in fact have quarters of his own, though no one had ever seen them or knew where they were. The enchanter had appeared to live in this place._

_The tower was comfortable, compared to the homes and lives many had, but there were days when it was impossible to forget the locks on the doors, the iron shutters on the windows. The Templars. When you could feel the stones around you, solid and imprisoning. When the memory of the sun on your face, or the scent of the trees after the rain, made you irrationally angry. Angrier still when you realized you couldn't remember how it had felt, smelled._

_But not in this room. This room had never been a prison. It had been as near to a home as anything she remembered._

_It had been quiet here; Enchanter Maxim didn't speak simply to fill the silences. He said what he thought needed to be said, what he thought you needed to hear, and then he went back to his work. Selena wondered if he did that on purpose, to make what he did say matter more. It had mattered to her. His criticism, his advice, and_ — _rarely_ — _his compliments. Selena had hoarded them all like dragon gold._

_She had spent hour after hour here, practicing, perfecting. In those hours, in this room, practicing, she had felt in control._

_"This isn't real," she said._

_"No."_

_"_ _We're…" Selena looked at him, and corrected herself. "I'm_ — _"_

_Enchanter Maxim tilted his head and smiled at her. "Do you not have any suspicions as to what this is? Or perhaps I should said_ _where_ _it is?"_

_Selena looked around, began a slow circle of the room, touching the table, the pedestal. The few pieces of scarred furniture that remained. She tried not to think about the Circle too much, but there were some things you didn't, couldn't, forget. Not even when you tried._

_Like this room._

_It was… No, it wasn't. Not_ _exactly_ _as she remembered it. Her head was…odd_ — _it took her a second_ — _she had to think_ — _but the scent. This place had always smelled of fire, of snow and the sharp sting of lightning. The servants cleaned up as best they could, but the scent was always there, worked into stone and wood. There was no scent here._

_"This is the Fade?" Enchanter Maxim inclined his head. "I'm…"_

_"Asleep. Only asleep."_

_"But…" She stopped, looking around again. "This can't be, this isn't right. It's too…clear." The Fade wasn't usually this clear. It was a mirror, Enchanter Maxim had said, a reflection of the world, and like a reflection things were often the wrong way 'round._

_"I may have smoothed out some of the edges. I thought it would make things easier. And then there is the mark on your hand," he added. "It is connected to the Fade, so it would not be so very surprising if it altered your connection to the Fade in some way." There it was. The echo in his voice. The second voice skimming just along the surface._

_Selena looked at Enchanter Maxim searchingly. He was exactly as she remembered him, every line and crease, the thick, straight brows, the neatly trimmed beard. But now that she_ _looked_ _, she could see it was…an illusion? A costume? That wasn't the way he held himself. Not a memory, or at least not all memory. She would have gotten a memory right. "You're not…" He lifted his brows at that, and that was wrong, too. That wasn't the expression in his eyes. "Stop it, take it off_ — _that's not_ — _that's_ — " _Cruel_ _. She had to turn away, she couldn't look at him, grabbing the back of a chair and digging her nails into the warped wood._

_The enchanter stayed where he was. "You were the one to choose this place, this shape, not I. I had thought you chose a place that would give you comfort," he went on. "Why does it make you cry?"_

_"_ _I'm not_ — _I don't_ — " _But she was. She tried to stop. The tears. The words. Despite her efforts, they came out and when it did they were choked and broken. "Because this isn't real."_

_"That is a matter open for some debate," the enchanter said, but his voice was soft and kind, as if he was trying to be gentle with her. "But not, I think, just now. Do not let it distress you, child."_

_Even as she shook her head, there was shouting in the halls. And then screaming, and the sound of running footsteps. No. No, please. This wasn't real. It wasn't. But the screaming went on._

_"What is that?" the enchanter asked._

_Please, please, no. Selena closed her eyes, but it didn't work. You could never close your eyes in the Fade. You could never look away. The most you could hope for was that everything would be so tangled up you could pretend it didn't make sense._

_Something slammed against the door, causing it to shudder._

_This wasn't real. She hadn't been here when it happened. She had been in the library. But Enchanter Maxim had; she'd found the_ — _his body. It hadn't been the only one. He'd fought hard. She hadn't been able to do anything. She'd left him_ — _it there. Left all of them. No time to think, no time to mourn. There was only the blood and the fear. The breathless fear, and the frantic, brittle hope of escape._

_Stop it stop stop_ — _but she couldn't stop it. Not here._

_It didn't matter. It was only a memory. Memories couldn't hurt you in the Fade. They couldn't._

_"I suppose that depends upon the memory. And the hurt."_

_"_ _Shut_ _up_ _," Selena hissed as the door shuddered again. Then again. "Stop it_ — _go away_ _!"_

_The enchanter frowned for a moment, then his expression cleared. "You think me a demon?" He gave her a fatherly smile. "No, child. I am no demon. Consider me…a concerned party, who wished to keep an eye on you. Nothing more."_

_Selena shook her head. She saw the staff in her hand, realized she was holding it only when she looked for it. It had been the one she carried to the Breach. Crude and brutal, and meant for violence. She flexed her fingers along the wooden handle, strangely clear even through the tears. She felt the mark on her hand, aching, glowing, burning away the edges as she heard the door creak and smash apart, the glow blinding her and the ache_ —

Woke her. Dragged her out of memory and into awareness, bright and green and aching, and she felt something on top of her, trapping her, tangling her legs, and twisted frantically, crashing into — the floor.

She was lying on the floor. Twisted in a blanket. Her heart felt like a humming bird trapped in her throat, fast and frantic and dizzying.

She was in a cabin. Not the dungeon. A cabin. A nice one, with thick wooden walls and a real, hard, wooden floor. Furniture. A desk to one side, and a washstand by the door with the glint of a mirror on the wall over it, and a large fireplace along one wall. The firelight danced along the uneven planks of the floor and gilded the dark red-brown of the walls.

She tried to calm herself. To focus. To feel the heat from the fire when she couldn't stop shaking — shivering. The cabin was warm and bright, there was the quiet, comforting pop of logs, but she was so cold, she was so, so _cold._ Selena drew her knees up, clawing her fingers through her hair as her chest went tight and the dream slipped back in on her like the turn of the tide.

She didn't dream of it. Not often. She had shut that door. She'd locked it. There were bad moments — sometimes — but she got through them, didn't she? She'd had to, because there wasn't time to think. And if she did dream — only sometimes — they were _dreams,_ twisted and nonsensical. She'd known they were, even when she ran and ran and could never run fast enough. Knowing that had made it possible to swallow back the sickening wave of terror that would send her head spinning and make acid rise in her throat.

The dreams had never been like that; they had never been so clear. It wasn't real. She'd known it wasn't, even there, but it had _felt_ real. He had looked —

Maker, why, _why_ had she dreamt it? Except she knew why, didn't she — _black and ash and ruin, burning, twisted and burning, together, and dead all of them dead and ashes blood and ashes and stop it stop it_ _ **stop it**_ —

Selena pulled the blanket up to her and buried her face in it. Let out breath after shuddering breath. The blanket was thick and fine, and swallowed any sound.

It would be easier if it was only fear. Fear could be controlled. You could shut it away and bolt the door, and if it seeped through the cracks, then you could always tell yourself it didn't matter. It wasn't real. It was an echo, phantom pain of something that had happened and was gone. She wasn't there anymore, she had escaped, she was never going back.

There had been a time when she would have given anything not to be in the tower. But she had been wrong. She hadn't known what _anything_ meant.

Selena squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the blanket. It was damp against her cheeks.

She would not cry. If she cried now she would never stop.

Then the door opened abruptly and Selena shot up, the blanket tumbling to the floor.

It was a woman, tall and wiry, with dark hair bundled back in a messy knot and a small, worn chest under her arm. There were shadows of fatigue under her eyes, but the expression on her face was on of sharp and almost painful focus. She paused when she saw Selena. "You're awake."

"Yes. I…" Selena felt the warmth of the fire against her damp cheeks, and fought back the urge to turn away and scrub at her eyes. "Where am I?"

"Haven."

She was in Haven. In a cabin. They had taken her here, afterwards, and then they'd left her. Alone. Except that didn't make sense. The Breach, it — Selena rubbed the heel of her hand against her breastbone. "It's still there. The Breach."

The woman didn't answer right away. "Yes. It's still there." She set her chest aside. "But it's stable now, as far as we can tell, and it stopped growing. As did your mark," she said, crossing to Selena. "Or, at least, that's what we hoped." She held out a hand, and nodded impatiently to Selena's.

Selena hesitated, but she held out her hand. The woman gripped it in both of her own, twisting it, testing it, prodding at her palm and flexing her fingers back. "Better," she said, shoving the sleeve of Selena's jacket up to get a look at her arm. Her movements were brisk and efficient, if not particularly gentle. "That's healed. Weird, but healed, so I'm not going to complain about it."

"My hand?" Selena asked.

"Arm. You had some pretty bad — let's call them 'burns,' for lack of a better option. When they brought you in, whatever you did with the Breach. Basically ate the skin right off. Not bothering you, is it? Your hand," the woman said.

"No. It…no." It wasn't. Selena blinked, putting aside the sinking feeling in her chest as she realized for the first time that her hand didn't hurt.

The mark was still there. She knew it was. She could still feel it, settled into muscle and bone. It flickered to life as she watched, the glow of it shining up and spreading, like a star in her palm. Selena focused on it, and the glow grew brighter. And there was the ache, or at least an echo of it. It felt more like a memory of pain than pain itself, a pain so fierce and deep it left a scar under the skin. She forced herself to relax, and the glow died away.

"Isn't that interesting," the woman muttered, and let go of Selena's hand. Selena smoothed her damp palm on her jacket. And realized — rather later than she should have, Selena thought — that she was wearing new clothes.

Nice clothes.

Clothes that she didn't remember putting on.

"These…" Selena cast a glance around the cabin; the battered coat, shirt, and leggings she remembered having on were nowhere to be seen. "My clothes — the ones I was wearing — "

"Ruined," the woman said flatly.

"Yes. Of course." Selena smoothed her hand against the jacket she was wearing. Now. It was an improvement over her other one. Warm and soft, and still sturdy enough for wear. Fine, too, with precise needlework and a row of gleaming buttons running all the way up to a high collar.

The pants were new as well.

She tried not to think about the smallclothes.

The woman reached up towards Selena's face, pausing even as Selena flinched back. "The cut on your forehead. I'm going to take a look at it."

Selena nodded, feeling heat creep up her face. The woman didn't mention it, didn't even act as if it was unusual. She simply tilted Selena's face up and prodded gently at spot near Selena's temple. "Any pain?"

"No."

"Headaches? Dizziness? Double-vision?" Selena shook her head, and the woman held up a finger. "Follow this. Looks good," she said after a bit, stepping back. "Congratulations. You're still alive. And you have a fancy new scar with which to impress the fellows down at the tavern."

Selena regarded the woman for a moment. There was something about her sharp-edged brusqueness that cut through the fear and dreams. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a very comforting bedside manner?"

"Not once, if you can believe it."

She could. But she still found it comforting. "How long — "

"Since we dragged you in here unconscious?" The woman strode over to the desk, where there was a bowl and a pitcher of water, and began to briskly wash her hands. "First or second time?"

"Do you ever let anyone finish a sentence?"

The woman tossed a glance over her shoulder. There might have been some amusement in it. "Just wastes time, don't you think?"

Selena felt herself smile. "Either."

"About a week since the Conclave," the woman said, amd her voice broke on the word.  Her mouth twisted into a brief grimace, and then she cleared her throat. "Three days since the Breach. Not too bad, except it means that smug bald know-it-all was right again — as if he needed another reason to act superior. He said you'd probably wake up today, which is why Lady Cassandra asked me to look in on you. Speaking of — she asked to be informed ' _at once'_ of any change in your condition."

"She survived," Selena said, starting forward. "And Solas, you said. What about Varric and — there were a lot of people up there."

"Yeah. They made it." The woman hesitated, scrutinizing Selena once more. Her gaze was uncomfortably penetrating. "A lot of people survived because of you."

Selena looked away, snatching her hand back when she started fiddling with the buttons on her new jacket. "It's…I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

The woman gave her something that might have been a smile, if not for the hollow look in her eyes. "Em. Emilia. I'm one of the surgeons around here — which you've probably guessed already unless you're a complete idiot. I've worked with the Chantry before, knew Lady Cassandra. When they found you up there she pulled me out of the ranks. Asked me to keep an eye on you."

"I…thank you. I appreciate it."

"Don't. Don't get me wrong, I'd love it if you could, but you can't. It was mostly Ser Why-Don't-I-Patiently-Explain-To-You-Everything-You're-Doing-Wrong. He's good," Emilia added bitterly, frowning.

"I still appreciate it," Selena said, and the surgeon's frown lifted, and she nodded. "Could you tell me where the Seeker is?"

There was the briefest flicker of humor in Emilia's eyes. "Last anyone heard, having a discreet word with Chancellor Roderick in the Chantry." She picked up her chest, tucking it under her arm. "Speaking of — she did say ' _at once.'_ "

"No, that's all right. I'll — I'll go." Whatever was waiting, she couldn't hide in here. Better to face it now.

Emilia nodded. "If you like. I'll check in again tomorrow. Any blurry vision, nausea, dizziness — anything — you come get me." She didn't wait for an answer, but strode out. Leaving Selena alone. In new clothes.

It wasn't important, Selena told herself. She needed to find the Seeker, she needed to find out what had happened. The Breach — _that_ was important. That was what she needed to think about.

There was a pair of boots and thick woolen stockings by the foot of the bed. Well, that was…kind of them. She had needed new socks. Her old pair had been mostly holes and poorly darned knots. They had been the pair she'd worn out of the Circle.

Don't, _don't_ — she pulled the boots and stockings to her, and put them on. The woolen stockings slipped over her cracked and blistered feet like satin, soft and thick. The boots were even better; not new, but beautifully made. Sturdy, strong, and supple, the leather like cream as she laced them up. She'd been idiotishly reluctant to steal a pair of boots at first — and then, quickly, too quickly, boots hadn't mattered. Food had mattered, and for a long time it had been the only thing that mattered. It was hard to care about cold feet when you were starving.

She pushed herself up and headed for the door. Her staff was gone, too. Not that she expected it. Not that it would have made any difference, if they still thought she was responsible. If they were still going to hold her prisoner and put her on trial — which didn't make sense, not when they had left her unchained, not when they had put her in a cabin, a nice one, instead of a cell, with a real bed and actual blankets and — stop it, just _stop it_. Whatever was waiting, she wasn't going to hide in here. Better to face it now. Selena grabbed the door handle.

Movement out of the corner of her eye had her turning quickly.

It was the mirror.

Selena stared for a long moment.

She focused on the scars first. The scar. The new one. Not the other one, not —Solas had mentioned stitches. That was to be expected was well — mages were rarely trusted now, even to heal — but someone had gone over it with magic. Solas, she guessed, from what the surgeon had said. It cut through her right eyebrow; pink and new, and a little tender to the touch, but healed.

Her hair…

Was white.

How had that…when…

She thought about the pain. The pain of the rifts, the terrible and consuming pain of the Breach.

It had been a long time since she'd seen her own reflection. Not since the Circle, at least not properly. She'd had her own room there, after her Harrowing, and a vanity, and the time and luxury to sit and brush out her…her long dark hair. She'd enjoyed those moments. The feel of the brush pulling softly through her hair, and the quiet and the solitude that had been hers alone. A small, stolen space of time, when she hadn't had to answer for every action, every word, to the Templars and the Enchanters. With no eyes watching her, without the constant pretending that no one felt the tension humming just below the surface.

Then she'd been on the road, and there hadn't been time to think about anything like that. There'd only been the constant search for something to eat and somewhere safe to sleep, and the constant, _constant_ watch for the Templars. Her reflection hadn't mattered.

She told herself it didn't matter now. With everything that happened, hair didn't matter, and it was stupid to feel as though it did, to feel a sense of…of loss. It wasn't as if she couldn't recognize herself. She could. She just looked different.

It didn't matter.

Selena turned away from the mirror, and jerked the door open.


	8. Chapter 8

Outside the sky was clear and full of sunshine, and the wind was crisp against her face.

She knew it was there. Had known. But it was one thing to know it, to hear it, and another to see it. Hanging over the mountain. Eating away at the sky. The ice cut through her like a knife, slicing straight down to her stomach.

Selena strode forward, and there was movement out of the corner of her eye; two soldiers, positioned by her door, shot to attention and jolted after her, halting abruptly when she stopped. Staring at it. Glowing green and brilliant against the slowly swirling shroud of grey clouds.

She hadn't done it.

Selena felt the faint ache in her hand.

She thought the Breach looked calmer, steadier, but she couldn't be sure. She could still feel it. It wasn't the same pull as before; more a connection, like a ribbon wrapped around and knotted deep in her chest, the ends streaming out towards the Breach.

"My lady?" Selena pulled her gaze away from the Breach, and then blinked in surprise when the two soldiers saluted. One said, "We're to act as your escort. Seeker Pentaghast's request."

"Yes. Of course." Escort. It made sense. "I understand Seeker Pentaghast is in the Chantry."

"Yes, my lady." The soldiers saluted again, and turned to lead the way.

It wasn't entirely necessary. Haven wasn't so large that anyone needed to be shown the way anywhere, when a general wave and _over there_ would suffice. Though Selena supposed 'escort' could mean a number of different things. Not that it was entirely unwelcome, either.

_that's her_

It was rather like walking through Haven the first time. With the stares. The whispers. People nudging each other and stopping to watch her as she passed. The slowly gathering crowd.

_saved us_

Especially the whispers.

She heard them — _Andraste watches over her_ — spreading out like ripples in a pond — _she saved us_ — pulling other people in — _Andraste blessed her and she saved us!_ The crowd grew, clustered round, watching her, the whispers swirling like snow.

_In chains_ —  _Seekers are supposed to know everything but she had her chained like an animal! You can't trust them!_

_You can't trust them, but you can trust mages?_

Selena quickened her pace, following close to the soldiers as they strode up the step towards the Chantry. _still there she was supposed to close the Breach, but it's still there_ _all those rifts little cracks in the sky._

_she can seal them_ — _the Herald of Andraste!_

The whispers followed her as she passed, building until they were cries. _The Herald! Blessings upon the Herald of Andraste!_

The Chantry doors closed behind her, shutting out the calls.

 

* * *

 

The main hall of the Chantry itself was empty, but finding the Seeker wasn't difficult. Selena only had to follow the shouting.

It was coming from a room at the far end of the Chantry. Two voices, hard and harsh and angry enough to be heard even through the stone and wood. One was the Seeker's. It took Selena a moment to recognize the other as belonging to the Chancellor, the one they had met on the bridge, past the hoarse rasp of exhaustion. "Justinia has been murdered, along with hundreds of others, hundreds of innocent people! You cannot let this go unpunished!"

Selena reached for the handle, and then stopped as the Seeker's voice cut through the thick oak door. She sounded weary, but controlled. "I do not intend to."

"Then it is decided," the Chancellor returned, placing exaggerated care on the words. "She will be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be judged by whoever become Divine."

_I promise there will be a trial_ , the Seeker had said. On the bridge, with the ice whipping into them.

Selena stared at the door handle. It was stupid, wasn't it? Stupid to come here. She hadn't been thinking properly, with the dream and the crowd, and the…the Breach still…

She realized she was kneading the mark on her hand. _Still a lot of rifts out there_ , she had heard someone say. _Little cracks in the sky_. Cracks through which the demons came. The mark ached, but only a little.

The Breach was still there.

She thought of Gwen's voice, panicked, frightened, disbelieving. _You can't go back in there._ But she had. She'd had to.

Selena reached for the door handle. The iron was rough and cold under her fingers.

"Going in, then?"

Selena felt herself freeze. She could have _sworn_ the Chantry was empty. But she turned and offered Sister Leliana a polite smile. "Yes, Sister."

"I trust you are feeling better. Solas seemed optimistic about your complete recovery." The Sister tilted her head, and for the first time Selena saw her face clearly. She was younger than Selena expected, with a face like fine porcelain, and blue eyes as clear and hard as diamonds. They were unexpectedly penetrating, giving the uncomfortable impression that they cut straight through to the core of you and laid it bare.

Don't look away, Selena ordered herself. Do not look away. "I am."

The Seeker's voice came again. "This is pointless, Chancellor. I will not discuss it with you further."

"You will not?" The Chancellor's voice was edged with challenge. "If you refuse to hold that woman accountable, it will be taken as a sign that you condone this heresy. That you agree with it.  You walk a dangerous line, Cassandra."

"I walk that line every day," the Seeker's voice answered. "It does not frighten me."

"The Chancellor can be stubborn," Sister Leliana went on, still watching Selena. "You might have noticed."

Selena didn't answer.

"If you wish," Sister Leliana said, her accent twisting the words into silk, "you can go." Her eyes flicked to the Chantry doors. "You can run, and keep running, and perhaps if you run fast enough and far enough, you may be safe. For a time. From those who think you guilty, and from those who think you chosen." Her eyes flicked to the Chantry doors. "You heard them, Herald of Andraste?"

Selena nodded, watching her. "I don't understand why they're calling me that."

"Because they need hope. They are desperate for any sign of it. But that desperation can be dangerous. If you stay, there will be a point where you can no longer run from it."

The Sister's words were like a spell, but Selena knew better. There was nowhere safe. She wondered…but Sister Leliana's expression gave nothing away. Her face was a mask.

Selena turned the door handle and walked into the room.

The argument inside cut off abruptly. The Chancellor, red-faced and still wearing the robes from earlier, drew himself up as he saw Selena. The bright and amber of the torches did little to soften his features, though it was only partly the fatigue. He had the look of someone who had been born forty and bitter, and had only aged since then. "Leliana. You have decided to join us at last. Perhaps you can talk some sense into your other Hand."

"Surely you know her better than that by now, Chancellor," the Sister murmured, gliding around the long, crudely made wooden table in the middle of the room to a set of bookshelves at the back. It was a small room, with a low ceiling and close walls — cramped now, with the four of them. Six — as the soldiers escorting Selena stepped in.

"Lady Selena." The Seeker offered her a smile that seemed genuine, if a little rusty. "I hope you are feeling better."

"I am." She fought the urge to start tugging at her jacket again. She wished, desperately that they hadn't taken her old clothes. They had been worn and weather-beaten and ill-fitting, but they had been hers. Perhaps if she had them she would feel more like herself, instead of feeling like she was wearing a stranger's skin. "Thank you.  For the care, and the cabin." _For not putting me in the dungeon._ Selena did not say it, but it seemed to hang in the air nonetheless.

The Seeker cleared her throat. "It was the least we could do."

"Cassandra," the Chancellor interrupted. "Enough of this. Either do your duty, or I will have these men do theirs."

The Seeker regarded him for a moment, and then addressed the soldiers. "You may leave us."

The soldiers saluted and left. Selena watched them go. She glanced at the Seeker, who was watching her.

"For the Maker's — " The Chancellor began to pace, as well as he could in such a cramped space. "Think about what you are doing for one moment. If you are seen to support this woman, in spite of what she has done, it will be taken as a sign that you believe those ridiculous claims about her. Claims no doubt started by herself."

Sister Leliana ran a gloved finger over a roll of scrolls clustered on a high shelf. "While she was unconscious?"

"As Justinia's Hands, you — both of you — must been seen to publicly denounce this woman and all of the claims about her. This _mage_ is not — cannot — be Andraste's Herald, and to declare otherwise will only add fuel to a fire that is already out of control. The Chantry will not stand for it, and your duty to the Chantry demands — "

"My duty," the Seeker interrupted hotly, "is not to the Chantry. It is to the principles on which the Chantry was founded. As it is _yours_. That duty demands we not waste still more time in petty bickering while we ignore the real threat. The Breach," she said when the Chancellor's eyebrows lifted in challenge. "It is stable, for now, but it is still a threat. _I_ will not ignore it."

"It is only still a threat because of _her!"_ the Chancellor shot back, jabbing an angry finger towards Selena. "At best, the prisoner failed. For all you know, she intended it this way, to gain your trust!"

"I did _not_." The words shot up from Selena's stomach, too fast to swallow back. She felt them sear her throat. "I did everything I could to seal the Breach, everything was asked of me. I nearly died — "

For the first time, the Chancellor looked at her. There was a wall behind his eyes, even as his expression twisted into a sneer. Selena knew that look. She'd seen it in the Circle. The look of someone who had long since stopped letting life disappoint them. "' _Nearly_.'  A very convenient word, in so far as you are concerned. Once again you survive while so many others do not. And we are to believe it is — what? Merely good fortune? Luck?" The scorn in his voice was palpable.

"I don't…" Selena stopped. Luck made as much sense as anything. "Yes."

"That is not good enough. Hundreds died up there. Good people, who deserved to live. Better people than you." For a moment the lamplight reflected off the sheen of tears, adding a brightness to his anger.

"Providence." The Seeker's voice rang out between them. "The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour."

The Chancellor looked away for a moment. "Do be serious, Cassandra."

"I am completely serious."

"She always is." Sister Leliana was examining several scrolls. She dismissed all but two and crossed back to the table.

The Seeker shot the Sister a look. "Not al — "

"Always."

The Seeker turned back to the Chancellor. "You were not in the Temple, Chancellor. I was. I heard the voices. I saw — " For a moment, her expression was transformed by grief and frustration. Then she shook her head. "A vision. The Divine was captured by…something, and Trevelyan — the Divine called out to her for help."

"A vision," the Chancellor echoed.

"She was not the only one." Sister Leliana's voice was soft, but it made itself heard just the same. "Lady Selena, would you be so good?" She held out the scrolls and nodded to the table. Selena took them, and smoothed them out as the Sister pinned them to the tabletop with an inkstand, candlesticks, and the like. Maps. A faded and weathered one of Ferelden, and a new, though much-marked one of Orlais. Selena didn't recognize the markings.

The Chancellor straightened and turned back, the weariness covered once more by bitterness. "So her survival, that _thing_ on her hand, what happened at the Temple — that was all the Maker's doing?"

"No." A small leather bag materialized in Sister Leliana's hand. She tipped it over, pouring a trickle of small green stones onto the maps. Slowly, deliberately, she began to set them on the map.  One by one. "Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone of flesh and blood. Someone with a deliberate purpose. Someone Most Holy did not expect. If they were fortunate, then they died with the others. But perhaps they did not — or perhaps they have allies who yet live. It does not matter. I will find them. If they are wise," she continued, smoothing a hand over the yellowed paper, "they will not make me chase them for very long."

It took a moment for the Chancellor to answer, his face rapidly purpling. "Are you implying that _I_ am a suspect?"

"You. And many others." The Sister's attention was focused on the maps in front of her, but it seemed to Selena that she wasn't seeing them. Sister Leliana leaned forward, as if she sensed Selena watching her, and the hood dipped to hide her face.

Then there was a crash — a book. Thick and heavily bound. The Seeker had thunked it onto the table in front of the Chancellor, upsetting the stones and ignoring the look Sister Leliana gave her.

"You know what this is," the Seeker said.

The Chancellor did not touch it. "Justinia spoke of this nonsense, but she would never — you wouldn't dare — "

"We _will_ dare, Chancellor. This writ gives us the authority to act, and we will do so. We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible for the destruction of the Conclave, and we will restore order. With or without your approval."

"This is not for _you_ to decide."

"Nor you, Chancellor," Sister Leliana replied, looking up at last to give him a sweet smile. "The Divine's directive is clear, as you would see if you care to look. Restore the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos. You may stay, and help." Her voice went hard and dark in an instant, though her smile stayed just as sweet. "Or not."

The Chancellor glared at her, then abruptly turned and strode out of the room. The door slammed shut, rattling on its hinges.

"That — that — "

"Went well, I thought," Sister Leliana remarked.

"'Well'?" the Seeker demanded. "That egotistical, short-sighted — "

"I think we could have hardly expected it to go any better. Do not concern yourself with him, Cassandra. We have more pressing concerns." The Sister turned back to the map, smoothing sliding the stones back into place. A few of had scattered to the floor. Selena knelt to pick them up. "We aren't ready."

"We cannot waste more time. We must act now."

"No leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support."

"We have no choice," the Seeker returned hotly. "Would you have us wait?"

"I would have us know what we face."

"The Breach — "

"Not only the Breach," Sister Leliana said. "There is the matter of the other rifts as well." She waved a hand over the maps. "It is early days yet, but we are already receiving reports of rifts all across Thedas. Little tears in the Veil. Demons clawing their way into this world, and no way to stop them." Her eyes flicked up to Selena, one swift cut. "Except for your mark."

Selena looked at the green stones, glittering in the lamplight. The world was littered with them. "You want me to join your Inquisition."

"Yes," the Seeker said.

It was difficult to look away from the table. But Selena managed it, and turned to the Seeker. "What exactly are you trying to do here? What is 'the Inquisition of old'?"

"People," Sister Leliana said. "Nothing more. Those who banded together, many years ago, to restore sanity and order in a world gone mad."

"The first Inquisition preceded even the Chantry," the Seeker told her. "After, they laid down their banner and formed the Templar Order. But the Templars have lost their way," the Seeker went on, as Selena stiffened. "This fighting between mages and Templars has divided too many, and those in power cannot or will not act."

"Orlais is already paralyzed by the civil war, and, as bad as the fighting is between the mages and the Templars, King Alistair cannot be seen to support either side without threatening to bring the same to Ferelden. As for the Chantry…" Sister Leliana waved a dismissive hand over the map. "It is rudderless. So many Grand Clerics, those with the real power and influence, died at the Conclave. Those who are left — first they will squabble like children over who is to be named Divine. That will take time. Then they will wait for her direction, which will take more."

"Time we do not have," the Seeker insisted. "No. We are on our own. Perhaps forever. What is required now is…something else." She laid a hand on the Divine's writ. "Something that gives those who can do what must be done the freedom to do so, without owing allegiance to any single crown or country. It will unite them under a single banner once more."

Selena felt pain stab into her hand, and realized it was the stones she had picked up. She was clutching them so tightly they were cutting into her palm. 

"I am asking you to stay.  To join us and help fix this," the Seeker waved a hand at the table, "before it is too late. It will not be easy if you do, but you cannot pretend that this has not changed you. That you are not already a part of this. Its mark is upon you. It only remains for you to decide what you will do with it."


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

The ravens flew day and night.

Selena had been surprised to learn there were only four of them. There seemed to be a whole flock, the way they were constantly streaming in and out of camp. They were Sister Leliana's, she knew. The Sister had taken charge of a tent near the Chantry, on a rise that overlooked the whole of the camp, and Selena watched the ravens soaring there and back again. Dropping suddenly out of the sky down to the tent. Heading out, dark and glossy, wings cutting cleanly into the air as they climbed higher, until the clouds swallowed them up. They seemed to take pleasure in how silent they could be, arrowing past the unsuspecting for the sheer amusement of making them jump.

It was simpler to watch the sky for the ravens than to watch the Breach. She tried not to watch the Breach. She caught herself watching it more often than she was comfortable with. She did it without thinking.

They had given her some time to…think. Or, at least, Sister Leliana had intervened when the Seeker began to press her, and suggested they allow Selena a few days to think about it. They could spare her a few days, the Sister had pointed out, and Selena could likely use the rest.

 _A great deal has happened to the Herald in a short time_ , Sister Leliana had said. _It is not as if we do not have plenty to do. In the meantime, perhaps Lady Selena would like us to send word to her family, her friends, to let them know she is safe and well?_

Selena had declined that offer. Her family had made it clear that they were not interested in getting involved. And her friends… Selena had told the Sister _no_ and _thank you._ But there wasn't anyone to contact. There wasn't anyone left.

That was one of the things she was going to have to think about.

She had seen the Commander of the Inquisition's forces as she left, a tall, fair-haired man, striding up to the doors of the Chantry to hammer in a proclamation. She watched him stride back through the camp afterwards, neatly evading the frowning Chancellor Roderick. Head held high, looking forward. The Seeker moved like that. Many people in Haven — in the Inquisition did. With purpose. It was…tempting. The thought of not simply having to run and run. Of having a place and a purpose.

They were letting her stay in the cabin. She'd gone back there, after. And had been surprised when there was a knock at the door, and a slight, excitable elf came in, carrying soap and towels and two large buckets of hot water. She squeaked something about _Lady Cassandra's orders_ and when Selena spoke to her, she flung herself into a bow on the floor and nearly dropped both buckets.

The girl hurried out, but was back again a few minutes later with a tray of food. She quavered an apology as she set it on the desk — something about rations until they had secured a line of supplies from somewhere. Selena thought she thanked her. There was a hard-boiled egg. And a mug of tea, so strong and sweet it was nearly a meal in itself. And porridge — _real_ porridge, so thick she could almost slice it, and there was a swirl of honey on top and, Maker help her, raisins.

She thought briefly that she should go slowly. Make it last. That thought evaporated with the first searing taste. The porridge was hot enough to scald her mouth, but thick and rich, and she felt the heat of it slide down to her belly as she swallowed, and something inside her snapped at the feeling of real food in her stomach, feeling it settled there, warm and heavy, and the heat of it soak into her, and she shoveled in another mouthful, another, not even tasting it now.  She scraped the spoon along the sides of the bowl, and then licked the spoon clean, and then the bowl, running her fingers along the inside of it to make sure she hadn't missed anything, and then had to sit on the floor for a bit and take a long, quiet moment to pull herself together.

Afterwards, she washed up. The water was still fairly hot, and Selena put her new clothes aside and scrubbed and scrubbed until she raised red marks on her skin. She washed her hair as quickly as she could, and tied it back into a long tail while it was still wet.

When she was finished, she put her new clothes back on. She didn't have anything else.

It was tempting to think about hiding away in there, in that small, warm cabin. To bolt the door and shut this all away. The choices and the whispers.

Because it was so tempting, Selena forced herself to go outside. To walk through Haven, and see how exactly the Seeker was putting her Inquisition into action. Very well, it seemed. Focused. Organized. It would need to be, Selena supposed. Haven was a small village at the edge of the mountains, clinging to the rock and ice out of sheer will. It had nearly been forgotten, and then, with the discovery of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, found and fostered, built up again out of necessity, because of its nearness to the Temple, but it didn't seem large enough for what the Seeker was proposing. Not without that organization.

An infirmary had been set up by the Chantry. Emilia was there — she was always there, she didn't appear to sleep — bullying Chantry sisters about the proper size of bandages and how their instruments needed to be boiled. Endlessly, it seemed, stitching and setting and bandaging. The surgeon had said that a lot of people survived, but it was clear to Selena, seeing the infirmary, that survival could mean many things.

"Know any healing magic?" Emilia demanded when Selena asked if she could help. Selena shook her head. "Then no. You'll just be in the way. Headaches?"

"No."

"Good. Get out of here."

There was the apothecary, harried and short-tempered, crammed into a cabin at the edge of camp that was packed with bottles shoved onto shelves, bubbling away over flames, drying herbs hanging from the ceilings, and recipes tacked to the walls. There was the tavern, just down from the apothecary's, small but cozy, with a warmth that went beyond the roaring fire, and laughter that shifted into silence when she entered. Selena forced herself to linger long enough to exchange a few words with the wide-eyed, and surprisingly young, girl behind the bar — _you're her! Oh my goodness, you're her, aren't you?_ — before escaping.

There were a number of bonfires, spaced throughout Haven, and they all had something cooking on them, at all hours of the day or night. Vats of stew, spider-legged iron ovens for bread or hard biscuits, countless potatoes buried in the embers. And there was always a kettle on the boil, for the hot, sweet tea that everyone drank, or the coffee that…some people preferred coffee. There were a lot of people in Haven, and they all needed to be fed. It was surprisingly comforting to walk by, feel the heat of the fire, catch the scent of something roasting or baking, and hear the kettle whistling. If a little dizzying.

A merchant had set up shop just by the gates, and just beyond them the blacksmith's forge. And a training area for the soldiers.

There were Templars training them.

Selena stopped when she saw them.

It was a difficult moment. Seeing them that first time. She had known they were there. In Haven. Of course they were, they had come for the Conclave, she had _known_ that. But knowing it was different from seeing it. And seeing it was…difficult. The armor. She saw that armor in her sleep. The smell of the polish. A special mix of wax and oils that only they used. She couldn't be smelling it, she was too far away, but she knew it would be there. The swords, the light flashing along the blades as they slashed, silent.

_She hadn't thought they would be silent. Books always talked about swords whistling through the air, but their swords were silent, fast and wet and silent, as they came down._

Foolish. Foolish to be afraid, to see them and be afraid, to feel her heart racing in her chest and heat flush over her skin in spite of the icy wind whistling down from the mountains. Foolish to want to run don't run…

One of them looked over, shielding his eyes from the sun. Saw her. He grabbed another Templar's arm, nodding to her. His friend shrugged, said something Selena couldn't hear, but the first Templar started towards her.

The moment became a little more difficult.

Don't run, don't don't run, _think_ and don't run. They were in Haven, here, now, which meant they had come for the Conclave, and stayed for this Inquisition. It meant they wanted peace. The Templar strode towards her. He didn't seem to be very tall, but it was hard to tell. That armor made everything look bigger. It blocked out the sun, and cast only shadows.

She wished she still had a staff. She felt naked, standing there, in the strange, new clothing that still didn't feel entirely hers. It was better she didn't have one. It would have made things worse.

If it came to it, she wouldn't need one.

It wouldn't come to it.

Another Templar, a woman, hurried after the man and pushed her way in front of him. "Rory — Rory, stop this — "

He said something to the woman, low and quick — _Conclave…the Divine…_ — and tried to shove his way past her, to Selena. The woman shoved him back and then held out her arms. "I said stop this _now_! You know what the Commander will say when he hears of this!"

Selena could hear her heart hammering away in her ears. She could smell it now. The sweat. The armor polish.

_The scent of it was always there, in the Circle. It was part of the background, like the Templars themselves. Now the blood overpowered nearly everything, but the scent of their polish was still there. Like a ghost. And when it got stronger, she knew they were coming._

"I don't give a shit what that mage-lover says. She's just walking around free and we're supposed to accept that?"

Selena heard herself say, "I didn't kill the Divine."

He made to shove past the other Templar, to charge at Selena, but the woman managed to hold him back. "Then you're a fucking liar as well as a murderer! It isn't right, Lysette, and you know it!"

"Well. Isn't this nice? All of us here, together, keeping the spirit of the Conclave alive." Varric strolled up, tossing them an easy smile. He gave Selena a nod. "Heard you were up and about. Feeling okay?"

"Yes. Thank you." She hated how hard it was to say those words. Hated how brittle they sounded.

"Looks like you've got the glowing hand thing under control."

Selena looked down at her hand and unclenched her aching fingers. "Yes," she said. That sounded a little better.

Varric nodded again. "Lysette. Rory. How's the shoulder?"

"Better," the woman said, her eyes dancing from her friend to Selena. He still hadn't taken his eyes off Selena.

"Back on active duty yet?"

"The Commander says next week, if the healer approves it."

"Good to hear. Listen, if you all are around later, we're getting up a game of Wicked Grace. Tavern, around sundown. You should come," he said, elbowing Selena. "I'd like to see how well the Herald bluffs."

The Templar jerked away from the woman, taking a few steps back. "I don't play cards with mages." He stalked back towards the soldiers.

The woman gave them a brief nod, and strode after him.

Varric watched them go. "Making friends?"

"Isn't that what we're supposed to be doing?" Selena tried to focus on the wind. The cold.

"Theoretically. Come on. It's freezing. I don't know about you, but I could use something hot to drink."

 

* * *

 

The smell of something hot and savory beckoned as they made their way to the bonfire. It turned out to be stew. Two women were tending to a huge pot of it, nearly big enough that it could have doubled as a bathtub. Or, rather, one woman was tending to it, stirring the thickly bubbling, spicy-scented concoction as she and her friend gossiped. "I suppose you've heard about those refugees out in the Hinterlands. The ones near Redcliffe?"

Her friend _hmmm_ ed as she nodded at Varric and Selena. "Hard going, I hear." She wrapped her apron around her hand and lifted the whistling kettle off it's hook over the fire. "The mages and the Templars put a lot of people out of their homes."

"Mother Giselle is there to help, at least," the cook replied, stirring vigorously. "That's something."

Her friend sniffed, pouring boiling water into a large teapot. "I think food and clothing would help more than prayers. You think it's bad here — they're freezing to death down there."

"Mother Giselle's not like that. I met her — give us mugs, Letty, I know Pip's just brought back a load of them, washed — back during the Blight. She might say prayers, but she also found my Thom a bed in the Chantry infirmary, even after the Reverend Mother said Andraste's hospitality didn't extend to dwarves, and she didn't let any of the healers just pass him by, either. I'm afraid we've only got tea," the cook said, pouring out two mugs and shoving one into Selena's hands. "Coffee's all been 'requisitioned.'"

"Tea is fine, thank you," Selena said. The mug was massive and heavy, and hot enough to sting her hands.

Varric sniffed theatrically. "Something sure smells good."

"It's for supper tonight, and it's still got a few hours to cook, unless you like your meat tough as boot leather."

"Meat?" Varric's expression brightened.

"One of the Nightingale's scouts brought some by. And if you're smart, Master Tethras, that's all you'll ask about where it came from and what it is."

"Fair enough. You sure you don't have anything you could spare? For my friend," Varric added with a charming smile. "She's awful hungry."

"Famished," Selena said quickly, when the cook and her friend both turned to her.

The friend pursed her lips, but bent down to lift the lid off a cast iron oven when the cook nodded at her. The scent of baking, warm and sweet, blossomed in the cold air. "Now that you mention it, we did get a bit of flour this morning. Oh, a few more, Letty, there's nothing to the girl."

Letty passed them a small handkerchief full of cookies, still warm from the oven.

"Now you go and sit down," the cook said, waving an authoritative ladle at one of the long benches set up near the bonfire. "And if anyone asks you where you got those, mind, it was here."

The women dropped their voices, but Selena still heard the whispers as she headed to the benches. _That's her. The one as stopped the Breach from getting any bigger._

_I thought she was supposed to close it entirely. Still, it's more than anyone else has done. The demons would have had us otherwise._

Selena blew on her tea as the steam curled up into the cold air. Trying to give it a moment to cool. To give herself a moment.

She tried a cookie. It tasted of almonds, and crumbled delicately in her mouth as she chewed.

"Good, huh?" Varric popped a second cookie in his mouth, whole. "Who knew being a prisoner actually rated you some decent grub?"

"I thought you were a guest," Selena said, taking another careful bite. Her stomach, prodded awake by the first cautious taste, rumbled, wanting more. Wanting her to gorge.

"I think they're still working out the fine print in this fancy new Inquisition. You okay?" he asked.

"Yes. Thank you," she said. "And thank you — for intervening."

"Yeah, well. If this…whatever the hell it is…is going to work out, we're all going to have to learn to play nice with each other." He nudged her. "Eat up."

Selena selected a second cookie and turned it over in her fingers. "Are you watching out for me?"

He grinned. "Just playing nice."

A shriek split the air. No, not a shriek, Selena realized, her heart pounding. More a squeal — joyous and excited and drawn-out and so high-pitched that it nearly became inaudible for a few moments. It was coming from a woman, dark haired and resplendent in gold and purple silks, her arms thrown wide as she rushed past the bonfire and up the steps towards the tent by the Chantry entrance. The next moment Sister Leliana was there, catching the woman in a hug so fierce it knocked her hood back, and Selena could see that the Sister's face was alight with laughter. There was a breathless, "You're late!"

"Of _course_ I am!" the other woman said, pushing back far enough to give the Sister an amused look. Amber earrings jangled against her dark hair as she shook her head. "Wait until you see them, Leliana — they are beautiful, simply _beautiful_! Even your Seeker will be impressed."

"Well, look at that." Varric waved his mug at the two women. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say Nightingale almost looks human."

"Nightingale?" Selena said.

"Our Leliana’s had, shall we say, an interesting career. Even before she was Left Hand of the Divine. You are going to want to eat that," Varric said, nodding to the cookie in her hands. "Bess is only going to start bullying you if she sees you're not eating."

Selena glanced at the cook. "Do you know everyone here?"

Varric shrugged. "Not too hard to get to know people if you talk to them a little. And use a little common sense. Everyone's got a story. Take Ruffles there. Those fancy clothes say court life to me, and she knows Leliana. I'm guessing she's the new ambassador we're supposed to be getting."

"We?"

"Looks like." Varric finished off his tea and set his mug down by the bench. "So. Now that Cassandra's out of earshot, are you holding up all right? I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to being hailed as the Herald of freakin' Andraste and offered a place in the armies of the faithful. Most people would've spread that out over more than one day. I'm assuming Cassandra did ask you to stay."

"She did."

"As a guest?"

Selena tried to smile. "So it would seem."

"You sure about that?" She glanced at him in surprise. Varric sighed. "Look, I've written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. That hole in the sky? That's going to need something more than good intentions and some heroic 'once more unto the Breach' type speeches. That's going to need a miracle." He gave her an intent look. "Sure you don't want to consider running at the first opportunity?"

Selena took a sip of her tea before answering. It was very hot, and so sweet that it made her teeth ache. "What makes you think I'm not?"

"Just a guess," he said dryly. "You know you keep looking at it."

Selena hadn't realized she'd turned to watch the Breach again. She pulled her gaze away. "I know."

But Varric had turned to watch it himself, shaking his head. "I still can't believe anyone walked out of that thing and lived."

Selena thought about the charges Chancellor Roderick had hurled at her. "It was luck."

Varric snorted. "Yeah, you're really lucky. I think the question is if it's good luck or bad. Don't suppose you remember what that was like? Writerly curiosity."

Selena shook her head. "I don't remember anything about… I didn't know what happened until they told me. Until I saw…the Temple."

"Yeah." His voice was somber. "I'm sorry."

"So am I," she said.

"Friends of yours?"

Selena swallowed. "Yes."

"Well, shit."

"Yes." She looked up at the Breach again. "They said thousands were coming to the Conclave."

"I don't want to think about it." Varric rubbed a hand over his face. "I do, all the damn time, but I don't want to."

"But you still do. All the time." Selena focused on the steaming mug of tea in her hands. "How do you — walk away from that? How can you? Turn your back on them, on all of them. All of those who died, those who could die if you do nothing. If you can help, then — then how can you choose not to?"

"A lot of people could," he said.

She turned on him, not sure if her question was angry or serious. "Could you?

Varric hesitated. "I'd like to think I'm as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this… Thousands of people died on that mountain, I was almost one of them. And now there's a giant hole in the sky. Even I can't walk away and just leave that to sort itself out."

Selena looked at her hand. "No."

"No," Varric agreed. Then he grinned. "Though you could argue that's the attitude that got us into this situation in the first place."

She gave Varric a wry smile. It was easier this time. "True."

He laughed. "All right. Sold. Let's be big damn heroes."

 

* * *

 

 

By the evening, a small crowd had gathered to watch as the woman in purple and gold shouted orders to two workers hanging out the top windows of the Chantry. They were carefully maneuvering a larger roll of…it looked like fabric to Selena. "A little to the left!" The woman flinging her arms dramatically in the direction she wanted them to go. "No, I said a _little_ — that's a _very little_ , you have to move it more! A _very little_ bit more!"

Selena made her way through the crowd to where the Seeker was watching. Her attention was focused on the entertainment, but she inclined her head as Selena stopped beside her. "Lady Selena."

"Seeker Pentaghast. What is this?"

The Seeker smiled. "You will see."

"Stop stop stop!" the woman cried out, waving her hands. "There! Perfect!" She clapped her hands together and sighed as she turned to say something to Sister Leliana.

Selena said, "I don't go by my title very much. I prefer Selena."

"I understand," the Seeker said. "I myself prefer simply Cassandra. Particularly among those I work alongside."

One of the workers nodded and waved a hand. The woman cupped her hands over her mouth and called out, " _Now!_ "

A banner unfurled, bold against the grey stones of the Chantry. Golden stitching on a brilliant red background. A sword and eye, with tendrils curling out like flames.

"The official banner of the Inquisition," Cassandra said, the ring of pride in her voice as clear as a bell. "So that everyone knows who we are, and what we shall do."

Selena stared up at the banner. The stitching was so new it gleamed, even in the fading pink and purple light of evening. "You're promising a lot with that."

"I intend to fulfill it," Cassandra said.

"It doesn't frighten you?"

"It does. But I will not let that stop me." The Seeker turned to her, arching an eyebrow. "Will you let it stop you?"

Selena felt the wind pick up, saw it catch the banner. "No."

"No?" Cassandra repeated, and smiled when Selena turned to her. She offered her hand. A week ago the Seeker had her in chains, and now she was offering her hand.

Selena took it.

Overhead, the banner snapped and twisted, fighting against the wind.

And in the distance, pulling the clouds to it and turning the stretch of sky over the mountain grey, the Breach burned like the sun.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Word of the Conclave, of it’s destruction and the death of Divine Justinia, spread like lightning, stunning those who heard it and leaving them, for a moment, silent with the shock of it.

But only for a moment. The silence shifted into whispers, and the whispers into shouting.

Official letters of consolation from every ruler and family of worth poured into the Chantry as black banners were flown in Val Royeaux. The remaining clerics declared a six week period of morning, to properly grieve their fallen Divine. A grand memorial was planned for Divine Justinia; it couldn’t properly be called a funeral without a body to bury.

Word of the Breach spread as well. That could not be prevented. The Breach was too large, too visible, even miles away, and the rifts it spawned were too numerous.

Word of the Inquisition spread a little slower.

 

* * *

 

Jennies heard it first. Jennies heard  _everything_ first — part of the job, it was — but it weren’t too hard to hear this, in any case. Every bloody hat in the Chantry trying to wail louder than the rest, hoping if they put on a good show and used the right fancy words they’d have a chance at the big hat. Wailed all in front of the servants, too, cause most bigs didn’t pay attention to your ears unless it was to laugh at them. But just cause some maid scrubbing floors didn’t say nothing when Grand High Reverend Whosit was pissing on about the Right and Left setting up camp and causing a lot of bother, didn’t mean she didn’t say nothing back down in the kitchen when she was emptying out the buckets. Everyone was talking, and with all that talk about, no one paid mind to the scrag what came in to clear the pantry of vermin now and again, specially if they were an elf.

 

* * *

 

The Chargers were in Kirkwall when they heard. Tricky place, what with the boss, but one with plenty of work. Most folks were still a little bitter about the Qunari, but most folks also liked being able to boast that they’d hired one as well. They’d just finished up a job — spiders, not too bad — and had settled into the third tavern they could find. Third, because the first two refused to serve oxmen. The boys’d started to object, but the boss just shrugged and said there were plenty of places where they could throw away their money.

Krem ended up splitting a bottle with a bearded fellow, looked like he’d been worked over by something bad and got away lucky. He drank most of the bottle. Krem didn’t mind. Time had been when he’d gotten a little too good at drinking — well, he had started early — so he tended to be very careful about it these days. Besides, looked like the other guy needed it more.

The boss didn’t join them, but Krem knew he was listening cause of the way he sat back and didn’t say much to the boys. And nodded to the bartender to bring by another bottle, after the man knocked over the first one. It wasn’t the drink. Poor bastard’s hands were shaking that bad. “A bloody fucking great hole in the sky, that’s what it is. Pouring out demons.”

“How does that happen?” Krem asked.

“Don’t care  _how_. How doesn’t matter, not when there’s demons ripping folks apart.” The man drained his glass and poured another. “Woulda all been dead if they hadn’t found some way to stop it. Mage or something.” He snorted and drained his glass again. “I don’t know how. You can believe I didn’t stick around to find out. Sure, they say it’s stable — for the moment — but it’s still there, isn’t it? Now they’re going to, to what? Hang around and find a way to get rid of it?” He poured another drink. Tried to. Most of it ended up on the table. “Fuck that. Getting the hell out of there. Getting as far away as I can.”

They’d been hearing talk of demons. Of the tears in the sky. But they hadn’t come across any themselves — for which Krem was damn grateful; boss tended to get the heebie-jeebies about demons, whine about it for weeks afterwards. And, well, there was always a lot of talk in taverns. Most of it was shit. Krem figured this wasn’t, though, because later that night, when everybody’d pretty much passed out, the boss went for a walk. He did that sometimes. It usually meant a few days off, biding their time until after he’d heard back.

 

* * *

 

Selena tramped through the snow in the woods outside Haven. The trees were sparser out here, and the drifts had reached ankle-height. The blacksmith said he thought it was out this way, when she’d gone to see him after hearing the quartermaster grumbling about the need for wood and iron.

“Threnn’s right about that,” the blacksmith had said, rubbing a rag over his sweating face. “Wood won’t be a problem with all these trees about, but we’ll need iron soon if we want to keep going. Can’t make blades without metal and out here iron’s the best we’ll find. I’d send one of my boys if I could, but we’re working ‘round the clock as it is.” The blacksmith eyed her speculatively. “Tell you what, miss — you help me out, maybe I can give you a hand. You’re going to need a staff, aren’t you? If you plan on sticking around.” He nodded down the way, to the row of tents where the soldiers were training.

Selena didn’t need to look; she knew the Templars were watching.

She looked anyway.

They weren’t glaring, but they were…she knew that look. It was the one they had worn in the Tower. Distance, caution. And expectation. That look said they weren’t just watching, but waiting. For you to turn abomination. For the time to draw their swords.

_The Knight-Commander shook her head, but she drew her sword. The flames licking out the windows turned the blade to gold. Rain splattered against their armor as they turned to go back inside, cold and heavy, almost drowning out their voices. Almost._

_Don’t care who started it,_  the Knight-Commander had said, roaring through the rain. _We must end it._

Stop it. Stop thinking about it.

The Commander was with them. Commander… _Rutherford_ , she thought.  _Templar._

She would have known he was a Templar even if Varric hadn’t told her. It was in the way he held himself. The way he was watching her now, with almost the same expression on his face. She felt the tightness in her chest, the fear knotting and pulling taut. It took conscious effort to make herself nod, smile, before she left herself turn back to Harritt. “I would appreciate that.”

“Yeah, well, I appreciate not getting clawed open by a fucking demon.” He tossed the rag aside. “Don’t know much about staffs. Better at swords. Don’t suppose you can make do with a sword?”

Selena shook her head. “No.”

The blacksmith shrugged. “Well, find that iron and we’ll get you sorted. I’m sure I can hammer out something that’ll do in a pinch. Eli thinks it might be past the shack the old apothecary used to use.”

“How much do you need?”

“As much as you can find,” he tossed back as he headed back to his anvil. “We’re fitting an army here, aren’t we?”

It appeared they were.

Selena had felt the stares following her as she headed out on her own, but she hadn’t minded them. She’d told herself not to mind them. Not to look back. She was part of the Inquisition, wasn’t she? That meant pitching in. Lending a hand. Going to look for bloody iron when it was needed. She might be an apostate — after all this time she knew it was technically correct, but the word still tasted bitter — but she wasn’t a prisoner. She could go for a walk, on her own, to help a…a colleague in his time of need.

They let her. They might have watched, but no one stopped her leaving camp, or insist she take an escort. Perhaps one of Sister Leliana’s scouts followed her; Selena doubted she’d be able to spot them if they did. The Sister didn’t seem the sort to employ amateurs. Whether or not they were there, it still felt as though she was alone.

She waited for her muscles to relax. For the pressure in her chest to ease. It was always better when she was alone. She focused on the walk, the quiet of the woods and the crunch of snow under her boots. The taste of ice in the air. It helped a little.

It was getting easier, a little easier, to do this. To walk through Haven, talk to people. The harried apothecary. The tart-voiced young woman tucked away in the Chantry, who was responsible for research. Em. Varric. The stares were still there, but they felt a little less fervent. It helped. There were days, moments, when she felt a part of something instead of simply apart.

It had always been easier to be apart. Always stronger alone. She’d learned that at the Circle. She caught herself before she started rubbing behind her ear again. A lot of what the Circle had taught her was shit.

It would have been easier now if she’d stay that way. If she hadn’t known Gwen and Ewan, if she’d never spent those days, weeks, carrying Lilywell through muck and mire. But she hadn’t stayed apart, and it hurt now to try to go back.

She’d stood in line for supper the other evening and tried to pretend the voices around the cookfire were theirs, but it had felt like a betrayal.

Selena squeezed her eyes shut, pushing back the pressure behind her eyes as the cold stung her lashes. She walked faster.

The iron was out on the other side of the lake. Not too far from camp, and the path wasn’t too difficult. It should be easy enough to get some carts out here, or whatever they would need, to get it back. She pulled the map she had brought out of her pocket and unfolded it, pulling out a pencil to mark the location.

“The Herald of Andraste. Blessed hero sent to save us all.”

Selena hesitated only a moment. Then she finished marking the map, and tucked the pencil back into her hair, spearing it into the base of the high ponytail she’d scraped her hair into this morning. She’d taken to doing that, jerking all her hair back and tying it away as best she could, and avoiding the mirror. Then she looked up. “Solas.”

Solas smiled. Selena caught herself straightening her shoulders as she stood; she always felt the need to remind herself that he wasn’t really  _that_ tall, that it was only the way he held himself. The way he seemed to regard people as if he was doing so from a distance. “A pleasant day for a walk. I hope I do not disturb you.”

Selena rolled up the map and slid it up her sleeve. The other day Varric had nudged her at breakfast, nodded to Solas —  _we should put a bell around his neck._  At the time she hadn’t taken him seriously. “Of course not.”

His brows lifted at that, but went on, smooth as cream. “I must confess, I did not expect the Herald of Andraste to be out searching for rocks among the snow.

“A favor for Harritt.”

“You have been doing a great number of favors, it appears.”

“Not that many,” Selena replied.

“Iron for the blacksmith’s swords. Elfroot for the healers. The old master’s notes for our well-informed and pleasant-tempered apothecary.”

She went with what she hoped was a casual shrug. “I had the time. I don’t have much to do here.” Not until Cassandra and the others decide what they wanted to do with her.

Solas gave her a carefully blank look. “Indeed.”

“It’s a small thing, but it helps. If we are going to make this Inquisition something real, then we all are going to have to — play nice,” she finished, feeling irrationally like she was trying to prove to an enchanter that she had learned the lesson.

“Let us hope others feel as you do. That they are as willing to put aside the past and look towards what must be done.” He glanced towards Haven. “And now that you have accomplished this favor, you will return to camp? Perhaps you would care to walk with me a little?”

For the first time since she had met him, she thought Solas sounded awkward. Not very much, and his expression was as serene as ever, but… Selena let herself smile. “That would be nice. Not for long,” she added. “I have to get this back to Harritt, and — ”

“And,” he concurred, “I doubt either Cassandra or our fine Templars will be satisfied with letting you alone for long. Who knows what mischief you could get up to out here on your own, with only another mage for company?” he continued as she stiffened, walking on in a random direction.

“Not very much,” Selena said, jogging after him. “Iron and elfroot."

“Yes, but it is not what you are doing, but all that you _could be_  that matters. Surely you are familiar with how the human mind works by now.” Solas must have caught something in her expression, because he added, “Not that the elvhen or dwarfish, or even the Qunari mind are any different. Particularly the Qunari mind. You could be concocting all manner of dark and secret plots. Or perhaps you are simply trying to escape. Fleeing towards the mountains, seeing how far you can run before they come after you.”

“I don’t need to escape,” Selena said tightly. “I’m not a prisoner. I’m here by my own choice.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes.”

“And, I am sure, if you chose to leave, the Seeker and her Nightingale, and all of those good and noble Templars, would happily see you off and wish you well.”

“Yes.” It came out harsher than she intended.

That eyebrow went up again. The enchanter-to-pupil eyebrow. “Do you truly believe that?”

No. She didn’t. But it didn’t matter. “The mark on my hand is the only thing we know of that can close rifts. If I left, they would have no way to seal the Breach.” So it didn’t matter if she chose to stay or was chained. Not if leaving meant more people dying when she could have done something.

Solas regarded her for a moment. “Then it is most fortunate for those here that you chose to stay. On that subject, you will be pleased to know,” Solas informed her, “that I have decided to remain as well. At least until the Breach has been closed.”

_You will be pleased._ He said it with such simple confidence that Selena felt herself smile. Without thinking, without having to force it, and she couldn’t think of the last time… But his expression was so serious that she let the smile drop away. It was easy enough; she’d had practice. “Was that in doubt?”

Solas considered her with faint amusement, his long-legged stride smooth and unhurried as he loped across the snow. “I am an apostate, surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a rebellion. Will you tell me you had no doubts, when you agreed to stay?”

“No,” Selena said, increasing her stride to keep pace with him. Solas didn’t seem to move that fast, but he was always a few paces beyond her. It felt like a constant struggle to catch up. “But I — our situations — ” She tried again. “Seeker — Cassandra told me that you sought them out. That you volunteered.”

“That is correct,” he said. “Once I saw the Breach, the destruction of the Temple, I chose to seek this Inquisition out, and to offer my help. It was, however, a choice that I considered, and carefully. As was the choice to now stay and continue to give what assistance I can. I do not think it will be easy for any mage here. Cassandra has been accommodating — indeed, many of the Inquisition have been — but you understand my caution.”

She did. “You don’t trust Cassandra to protect you?”

“I believe our Seeker to be a woman of purpose,” Solas replied after a moment. “And I believe that no matter the purpose, there is only so much one woman can do. Even if she is the Chosen of Andraste,” he continued with an arch smile.

“ _Stop calling me that_.” It came out edged; Selena squeezed her eyes shut at the quiet that followed. Focused on the crunch of snow under her boots. They were wonderful boots, warm and weathered and… “You don’t believe that.”

“Do I not?”

Selena stopped. Made herself stop and wait until he stopped as well and turned back. “Do you?"

He examined her for a moment before answering. “I believe that what I believe is of little consequence in this particular instance.”

“I’m no hero. I was not chosen, by Andraste or anyone.”

“Were you not?” Solas lifted his brows. “The tales they tell of the woman who saved you from the rift, who sent you back to close the Breach? The woman of gold and flame? They are all false?”

“Yes. No. There was a woman,” Selena said, and then rushed on. “I don’t know who or what she was, or why she was in that rift.”  _Why I was in that rift._  “I never claimed she was Andraste, and if she sent me back to close the Breach then clearly I failed.” She felt the pull in her chest and refused to look. She had failed and it was still there, it and who knew how many others. She wondered how many little green stones were Leliana’s map by now.

“For the present,” Solas agreed. “Perhaps you were chosen. Or perhaps you were, as our friend Varric says, lucky. Perhaps what happened to you — the mark upon your hand, your survival when so many others died — was merely chance. You have acknowledged, however, that if there is any hope of closing the Breach for good, it lies with your mark. With you, alone. Every great war has its heroes, child,” he went on, not unkindly. “I know this well. I have journeyed deep into the Fade to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I have watched as hosts of spirits clashed, reenacting the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. The question now is only what kind you will be.”

“I — ” Selena caught herself clenching her hand. She forced her fingers to relax. “All I want is to find a way to seal this Breach.” Her eyes were fixed on the snow in front of her, but she was seeing the scarred mountain. The ashes and the fire. “To find whoever is responsible. To — ” She stopped.

“To what?”

She wasn’t sure. She knew what she wanted to do, and it was far too close to what all of Haven had wanted to do to her. She knew it, and wanted it anyway, and knowing that turned her stomach.

Solas was watching her. Waiting. “I wonder,” he said after a moment, “what sort of hero you will be if you cannot be honest, even to yourself. If you cannot say what is in your heart.”

_That look_ , Selena thought. That paternal look. As if he was her father, and, Maker, if he only knew what an insult that was. “I —  _we_ are going to close the Breach. We are going to find whoever is responsible and bring them to justice. And we are going to stop this war between the mages and Templars.” If they could.

“Quite the pragmatic and comprehensive list,” Solas remarked wryly. “You are to be commended on it.” He smiled at her. The enchanter again, waiting patiently for a student to catch up. “But you cannot deny that you have been set on this path, and whether you chose it, or wish for it, is ultimately irrelevant. The path is before you and you must follow it to the end. Whoever Selena Trevelyan is, whatever she was, whatever she may become, you must accept this.”

“And what am I?” Selena hissed, feeling the heat flow through her, feeling it eat through the ice and calm.

“It seems that is something you and I must both discover.” His expression turned solemn. “We cannot wish for what was or what may be, we can only face what  _is_. That, however,” he continued, nodding down the way in front of them, “is a discussion for another time.”

Selena followed his gaze. Seeker Pentaghast — Cassandra — was striding towards them. She was still a ways off, but even at a distance Selena could hear her approach, marching through the snow, branches snapping underfoot. At the very least, the Seeker did not sneak up on anyone.

Solas nodded amicably as she drew up. “Cassandra. A pleasant day, is it not? Have you come to join our walk, or merely to satisfy your concern that we have run off?”

Cassandra scowled at him. “Neither. I have come for the Herald. There are matters we wish to discuss with you, Selena.”

_We_ , Selena thought. She had seen the ambassador and the Commander in conference with Cassandra or Sister Leliana often enough, though she had yet to meet them. When the Commander wasn’t training the recruits or in conference with his Templars —  _stop it_ — which was rarely, he tended to stride around Haven with a rather daunting expression on his face — though, if Selena was honest, the ambassador was just as daunting, in her own way. She was like a bejeweled force of nature, taking down anyone in her path with sheer, silken determination.

“Ah, yes. The brave quartet,” Solas remarked. “I believe I will continue my walk. No doubt we will have the chance to continue our conversation at a later time, Selena.” He nodded to Cassandra and went on, disappearing silently into the trees.


	11. Chapter 11

They cut down to the path by the lake, and in a very few minutes they left the quiet of the forest. Without the shelter of the trees, it was difficult not to look at the Breach. Selena wondered if the Temple would ever stop smoking.

Cassandra cleared her throat as they passed by the old apothecary’s cabin. “I did not think you had run.”

Selena could hear the shouts of the soldiers training camp. The clash of metal. “No?”

“No. You are not a prisoner. You are allowed to go for a walk if you choose.”

She said it so magnanimously that Selena had to force back the urge to drop a curtsey and a  _very good, messere_. “Thank you.”

Cassandra shot her a sharp look. After a moment, she went on. “You are doing well here? You are…settling in?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Selena did not look at the soldiers as they looped around the soldiers’ tents, though Cassandra nodded to several as they passed by. The recruits acknowledged the Seeker with shouts and smiles and raised hands. Comfortable. Trusting.

Selena realized she’d been watching the Templars when one — Lysette, she remembered — met her eyes and offered a tentative smile.  _Kind_ , Selena told herself.  _She’s being kind, and you’re being foolish_. It was foolish to be afraid, foolish to feel like this.

“No one is bothering you?”

Selena glanced over to find the Seeker watching her. Of course. Of course she had been. “No.”

“Would you tell me if someone was?”

Selena hesitated. She could smell the polish. Even through the sweat and the pine and the clean, sharp scent of snow, she could smell the armor polish. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. “I don’t know.”

The Seeker’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. “That is, at least, honest. If it comes to it, I hope that you would. We are in this together, Selena.”

“I know. It isn’t easy. I — I don’t know you very well.” That wasn’t exactly what she wanted to say. It was what she meant, but she wanted… She wasn’t sure how to say what she wanted.

“Nor I you. That will not keep me from being honest with you.” Cassandra gave her a curious look as Selena detoured to the forge, but only added, “Nothing about what we are doing here will be easy.”

Harritt grinned, wide enough it could be seen even behind his huge mustache, when she handed him the map. “This’ll set us up right enough. I’ll send the boys out with a cart. You just let me know when you can come by and we’ll set you up.”

“I would appreciate that.”

The Seeker didn’t say anything until they had passed through the main gate. “He will make you a staff.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Cassandra met Selena’s surprised look evenly. “You should be armed. I apologize, I should have thought of it before. I must also ask that if you decide to leave Haven, even if it is only into the woods, that you do so armed, and that you do not do so alone.”

“I wasn’t alone.”

“No, but you went out alone and that was not wise. You should know that while some believe you chosen, many still think you guilty. You should know this by now.”

“I know it,” Selena bit off.

“Then use that knowledge,” Cassandra returned as they approached the Chantry. “You cannot afford to be careless. You should know this as well.” She heaved the heavy doors open, and strode inside without looking back to see if Selena would follow.

Inside the Chantry, it was dim but warm. There was three times as much work about Haven as there were people, but someone had found the time to clean the Chantry and set the place to rights as best they could. A Tranquil carrying a stack of books regarded them impassively, and continued on into a room at the back of the Chantry, moving with the dreamy, otherworldly grace all Tranquil seemed to possess.

“Does it hurt?” Cassandra asked.

Selena realized she had been rubbing her hand. “No.” Not like it did.

“But it troubles you.”

Her first instinct was to say no, of course it didn’t, but she stopped herself. She could be honest at least. “I couldn’t close the Breach.”

“That is not your fault.” Cassandra’s voice was certain. She seemed ever certain, about everything, and Selena felt a twinge of envy. It must be comforting to be that sure-footed. “You did everything we asked of you.”

“And it still didn’t work.” The mark gave a bittersweet pull, the brief flare illuminating the scar on her palm, the back of her hand.

“No, it did not.”

“Then what use is it?” Selena demanded, stopping to face the Seeker. “If it can’t close the Breach, then — then — ”

Cassandra hesitated and then awkwardly reached out to pat Selena’s shoulder. “Do not lose heart. We do not give up simply because we did not succeed the first time. What is important now is that your mark is stable, as is the Breach. You have given us time.”

“To do what?”

“To try again. Solas did not mention this?” Cassandra asked, and Selena shook her head. “I have spoken with him at length. Solas believes that a second attempt might succeed — provided the mark has more power. The same level of power used to open the Breach in the first place.”

Selena thought about the Breach, the sheer size of it, and fought the urge to knead her chest. “We don’t even know what this mark is, or how I got it. Couldn’t that kind of power make things worse?”

The Seeker’s dark eyes lit with humor. It was a little surprising. “And people call me a pessimist.”

“No, I — ” She didn’t want to risk what happened at the Conclave happening again. “I wish I knew what it was.”

“We will find out.”

“That kind of power won’t be easy to come by.” But Cassandra would have already thought of that. “You have something in mind,” Selena said.

Cassandra smiled, and led her to the room at the far end of the Chantry. “That is what we are going to discuss.”

 

* * *

 

“I am fine. You needn’t worry.”

The ambassador’s gasp pierced the air as Cullen strode into the makeshift war room. “If that isn’t the  _worst_  lie you have  _ever_  told me!”

Sister Leliana, lingering in the shadows, did not look over as he entered. But her voice dropped to a murmur. “I lie to you all the time, Josie.”

“Yes, but never so  _badly_ ,” the ambassador replied, her eyes going wide. “If you can’t do any better than that, I am afraid you will have to resort to the truth — as much as it  _pains_  you to do so.”

“Very well, then,” Leliana said. “I don’t wish to talk about it. Now leave it be. Better?”

“Yes!” Lady Montilyet turned to give Cullen a brilliant smile. “Good morning to you, Commander. You are doing well, I trust?”

He nodded. “Lady Montilyet. Sister. My apologies. There were some matters that required my attention.”

The Sister nodded but said nothing. Whatever he had heard about her, whatever concerns he’d had about working with the Left Hand of the Divine, Cullen had to say this for Sister Leliana — she trusted him to do his job. “Cassandra will be with us shortly. She has gone to fetch the Herald.”

Cullen frowned down at the maps spread out on the table. A mess, he thought. A bloody great mess. How in the Maker’s name were they ever to sort it all out? “We have all agreed to call her that, then?”

“The matter is still under discussion,” Leliana said. Cullen was certain she chose not to add the  _as you well know_  deliberately. “One best left until we are all here. You may consider my use of the title a whim.”

“Claiming this woman is the Herald of Andraste — ” Cullen stopped at Leliana’s pointed look. “All right.” He could wait for Cassandra.

The Herald of Andraste. He had heard the talk about her. It was impossible not to. It would be easier to write them off as simply rumors, but he’d also heard what Cassandra and Leliana had to say about the woman. What they said had happened at the Breach, while he and the rest of his soldiers had been pinned down by demons. Cullen had only worked with them for a short while, but it was long enough to know that Cassandra, at least, was not one to exaggerate things for her own ends.

If he was honest, it appeared to be past the point of mattering whether they agreed to call this woman the Herald of Andraste. All of Haven was calling her that, even his recruits. Some said it reverently, some bitterly, but most did it without thinking. Whatever else she was, for now it seemed she was also the Herald.

That title would cause problems. He knew it would. Whether or not this woman was Andraste’s Herald, there were too many who would use that title for their own ends.

Cullen frowned. The only ones he hadn’t heard refer to ‘The Herald’ was his Templars, though was another matter. One he was attempting to deal with.

“You know, I have met her parents,” Lady Montilyet said, flipping through the massive pile of papers she held cradled in one arm. “I wasn’t sure at first, she doesn’t look very much like her family, or at least not at first — I think it might be the hair, it’s so very striking but at the same time, is that  _all_  she’s going to do with it, it’s as if she doesn’t even  _own_  a brush — ”

“I am reasonably certain we can secure her a brush, Josie,” Leliana said.

“A brush  _and_  a comb. Or combs. A proper one to help sort everything out, and then a few pretty ones, for  _style_  — I’m sure I have a few I could give her, perhaps the little blue ones, they never really suited me — ”

“We are asking her to go into battle, Josie,” Sister Leliana cut in.

“And there is absolutely no reason a woman cannot look pretty while she is vanquishing her enemies in the heat of combat, Leliana.” Lady Montilyet sniffed. “You used to understand things like that.”

“As long as she can close the rifts, I don’t care what she looks like,” Cullen said. They were getting reports of new ones every day. He had seen in the valley the sort of damage a rift could do. Had done. And that had been to trained soldiers. They were receiving reports almost daily about rifts appearing outside farms. Villages.

“ — but it  _is_  her,” the ambassador continued uninterrupted, though she waved a hand at him as if he was being ridiculous. “I wrote to Henri, the steward of the Duc du Ambois, who is engaged to the companion of Lady Carrier, whose sister Mirabelle is the  _fifth_  private secretary to Lady Julianna Trevelyan, and who is apparently the current record-holder for the longest time holding that post. If she makes it another two months she will win the pot, which is up to five hundred gold pieces by now — ”

“Yes,” Leliana said, and it took Cullen a moment to realize she was speaking to him.

“Yes, what?”

There was a glint of humor in the Sister’s eyes. “Yes, Josie knows absolutely everyone.”

“You say that as if it is something  _extraordinary_ ,” Lady Montilyet said, continuing as if she hadn’t been interrupted. “But Mirabelle was able to confirm that the Bann Trevelyan and his fine Lady Juliana had — well,  _have_  — a daughter named Selena, who was a mage, and was sent to study at Ostwick after her abilities became apparent, though that took some little digging,” Cullen began to wonder if the ambassador ever needed to breathe, “at least according to Mirabelle, and I now owe her a slightly-larger-than-medium-sized favor. I suppose that means, in fact, she is not  _Lady_  Selena — though I do think we should consider keeping that, at least, for our more official visitors — at least until we reach an agreement one way or the other as to calling her the Herald of Andraste.”

“Will her family be of use to us?” Leliana asked.

Lady Montilyet tilted her head back and forth, as if measuring the matter. “Yes,” she said, though she didn’t sound happy about it. “Most likely, yes, I believe so. Though it will require a certain amount of delicacy. Bann Trevelyan is a man of old fashioned principles and a certain formality of manner — ”

Leliana caught Cullen’s eye and translated. “Prig.”

“ — and Lady Julianna is the  _dearest_  woman, who prides herself on her ever-expanding circle of friends — ”

“Aspirations.”

“ — with the happy talent for knowing the exact thing to say and the exact time.”

“Cat,” Leliana murmured.

Lady Montilyet pointed a finger at her. “I did not say that.”

A smile flickered across the sister’s face. “I meant you.”

The ambassador waved a gracious hand. “Ah, well. I am. And she is. I had the very great pleasure of their company at Bann Alfstanna's daughter’s  _endless_  wedding. I had met them once or twice before — Lady Julianna likes to move about in Society, and they would summer in Orlais before the civil war, at her cousin’s estate — you know him, Leliana, the Marquis du Maurin — and at the reception I was absolutely  _chained_  to the same table with them the entire time — and, of course, you never heard this because I did not say it, but I would quite happily stab myself with the salad fork than go through  _that_  again — that is the little one, on the furthest edge of the setting, Commander — ”

“What?” Cullen demanded.

“The salad fork,” Lady Montilyet said brightly. “In the event that we hold any official dinners, though I suppose that is not likely here, in this quaint, charmingly rustic — ”

“I know which one the salad fork is,” Cullen said. Which was not at all what he’d intended to say, and it was completely ridiculous that he felt the need to defend his knowledge of place settings, for the Maker’s sake.

“Excellent.” The ambassador gave him a brilliant smile. “It can be very confusing, I know.”

“I doubt we need to worry about the Commander knowing his way around the silverware. At least for a while yet, Josie,” Leliana said.

“It never hurts to be prepared.”

“You can’t be thinking of holding a dinner party.” He just managed to keep his tone under control. “We’ve barely secured enough proper supplies for the people here.”

Lady Montilyet blinked innocently at him. “I am not  _planning_  anything — ”

“Yet,” Leliana said.

“Of course not  _yet_ , that goes without saying — though that is not to say it will never happen, in which case wouldn’t it be wise to — ”

“Speaking of preparation,” Leliana continued before the ambassador could start again, “my people are attempting to locate the Herald’s phylactery. I don’t cherish very high hopes of it, however. According to my information, the phylactery storehouse in Ostwick was destroyed shortly before the Circle there fell.”

“You believe that’s necessary?” Cullen asked.

Leliana gave him a carefully masked look. “You don’t?”

“I thought — ” Cullen stopped, frowning. He thought about that morning. Seeing her speak to the blacksmith. He had seen the Herald about camp, once or twice, but it had been his first good look at her.

His first thought — his first  _sensible_  though had been that she carried herself like a noble. Back straight, chin up, head lifted in that particular way that made him wonder if she’d been made to stalk up and down for hours with a book on her head, like his mother had done with Mia. She kept her shoulders back and tense. Tense, but not tight; she was used to carrying a staff. That had used to mean something. A sign that a mage had at least made it as far as the Harrowing — apprentices weren’t allowed staffs — and passing the Harrowing, thank the Maker, meant they had some measure of control. These days, of course, the rebels gave every mage who wanted to fight a weapon. He had noted that she kept one hand —  _the_  hand — at her side, out of the way and out of sight, and wondered if it was to keep it out of sight or in case she needed to fight. He wasn’t entirely certain what the mark could do. No one did. Was it really as stable as the apostate said? Could it be used as a weapon? She didn’t have a staff, but that didn’t mean she was defenseless, and if the stories he’d heard about that mark were even half true then —

Then the blacksmith had nodded over at him. At him and his Templars, clustered around, staring at her, and the Herald had turned to look. She had met his eye. Given him a brief nod.

She had looked frightened. They were at some distance, and she had turned away quickly to speak to the blacksmith, but Cullen had seen too many frightened people to not recognize fear when he saw it.

The realization had cut through him like a blade: he had been thinking like a Templar. He had sworn to himself he was done with that — all of that — when he had left Kirkwall. He sworn that and yet — he hadn’t even thought about it. He had simply done it. As if that sort of thinking had been branded across his mind. Even now it brought a bitter taste to his mouth.

He wasn’t a Templar any longer. He was not going to think like that anymore.

So he said, clearly, “I thought we trusted her.”

“We need her, Commander. That is different. I, for one, would prefer we not be in a position where we need anyone.”

Lady Montilyet, scrawling a note on her papers, murmured something along the lines of  _look at me, so dark and mysterious, I wear a hood…_

The door swung open, and Cassandra entered with the Herald.


	12. Chapter 12

They walked into a waiting pool of silence, the sort of silence that made it clear they’d just interrupted a conversation.  Selena wondered if Cassandra noticed it, but the Seeker simply shut the door behind them and said, “You are all here.  Good.”  She cast a glance at Selena, and Selena couldn’t help but wonder what she looked like, especially when Cassandra smiled at her and laid an encouraging hand on her arm.  “You have not all met.  Selena Trevelyan, the woman who assisted us with the Breach.  Selena, allow me to present Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

 

Lady Montilyet dipped into an exuberant curtsey, all graceful flowing silks and exquisitely pinned hair, and Selena was suddenly, acutely aware of how shabby and uncomfortable she fel — she must look.  She had been like that, once.  She had enjoyed satins and the twinkle of jewels in her hair.  It was as if every day she discovered new pieces of herself that she’d lost.  The ambassador rushed forward with a brilliant smile to grasp both of Selena’s hands, the rings on her fingers flashing in the candlelight.  “It is  _such_  a pleasure to meet you at last, Lady Selena.  I have heard  _so_  much about you.”

 

“Thank you.  The pleasure is mine.  Selena is fine,” she added quickly.  “I haven’t used my title in — in some time.”

 

Lady Montilyet beamed at her, all warmth and graciousness.  “As modest in temper as you are bold in deed.”

 

Selena couldn’t stop the brief flash of surprise.  “I — yes.”

 

“I had the very great pleasure of meeting your parents at the wedding of Bann Sighard’s son and — ”  Selena had schooled her expression, but she felt Lady Montilyet cast one swift glance over her face “ — and of course, the Trevelyans are well known throughout  _all_  of the Free Marches,” the ambassador finished.  “But I have interrupted our fine Seeker.  Do forgive me, Cassandra.”

 

“Of course.  This,” Cassandra continued, indicating the tall man standing opposite Selena, “is Ser Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition forces.”

 

_The one with the Templars_ , Selena thought and hated that she did.  That it was the first thing she thought.

 

He regarded her with a slight frown.  “Such as they are.”  The Commander held himself…not exactly relaxed, but contained.  His hands lay on the pommel of his sword; resting but ready.  It didn’t look like a Templar sword.  “We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through.”

 

“I heard,” Selena said.  And that quite a number of those lost had been as a result of her pressing Cassandra and the others to go over the mountain.  Because of the scouts.  Because she had wanted to save lives.  “My sympathies on the loss of your men, Commander.”

 

“Our men,” he said, but the frown cleared a little.  “Thank you.”

 

“They knew what they were getting into.”  Leliana’s voice was a blade in the shadows.  She was leaning against a wall, having found the one dark corner in the small, brightly lit room.

 

“Leliana!” Lady Montilyet exclaimed.

 

“The sky has been torn open and demons are tearing into our world.  It would not be wise to overburden ourselves with sentimentality.”

 

Cassandra waved a hand at the Sister.  “Leliana you know, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Selena echoed.

 

“My position here involves a degree of — ” Leliana began.

 

Cassandra interrupted.  “She is our spymaster.”

 

Even through the shadows, Selena could see the wry look Leliana gave the Seeker.  “Tactfully put, as ever, Cassandra.”  Her eyes shifted to Selena.  “I trust you enjoyed your walk.”

 

“Yes.”  The muscles in her back wound tight as wire, but Selena did not look away.  “I did.”

 

“Did you find everything Harritt needed?”

 

“Why don’t you tell me?”

 

Leliana gave her a cool smile.  “If you have, then the supplies are greatly appreciated.  We are badly in need of them.”  She tilted her head to examine Selena.  “It is my responsibility to know these things, no matter how trivial.  My apologies, my lady Herald, if it makes you uncomfortable…”

 

“Oh, no, it — ”  Selena stopped before she said  _it reminds me of Ostwick_.  It did, but — she didn’t want to talk about Ostwick.  It was better if she didn’t.  It was better if she remembered instead that she wasn’t with Gwen and Ewan and the others anymore.  She couldn’t just say what she liked.  People were watching.   _Like Ostwick_  — stop it, stop.  She said instead, “It’s your responsibility,” but it sounded pale even to her own ears.

 

“And she is  _annoyingly_  good at it,” Lady Montilyet said, with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.  “I will say that you do eventually get used to it, because honestly it’s either that or smothering her with a pillow and, believe me,  _that_  is not going to work out for you.  At all.”

 

Leliana’s expression softened.  “Particularly not when you tell me what you’re planning beforehand.”

 

“I wanted to give you a sporting chance,” Lady Montilyet protested.  “It is important to play fair.”

 

“Which is why you lost.”

 

“As I said,” Cassandra interrupted, raising her voice to speak over them.  She turned to Selena.  “Our first concern must be finding the means of providing her mark with more power — a great deal of it — if we are to have a chance of closing the Breach for good.”

 

“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help,” Leliana said, slanting a look at the Commander.

 

The frown returned.  “I still disagree,” the Commander said firmly.  “The Templars could serve just as well.”

 

“I understand your concerns, Commander, but we need power,” Cassandra said.  “Enough magic poured into that mark — ”

 

“Might destroy us all.  We still know next to nothing about the Breach — or your mark,” he added, nodding to Selena.  “Pouring magic into it in the blind hope that it could become strong enough to destroy the Breach is reckless.  Not to mention dangerous.  Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so — ”

 

Leliana brief laugh was barbed.  “Pure speculation.”

 

“I was a Templar,” the Commander said.  “I know what they’re capable of.”

 

“I think we are all aware of what they are capable of,” the sister returned.  “Do you really think the Templars will so eager help us?  With a mage as our Herald?”

 

“I do not.  Nor do I think the rebel mages will want to help, simply because of that.  This cannot be about mages or Templars, but the safest and most effective way of closing the Breach.”

 

“The safest way is rarely the most effective, and to think otherwise is naive.”

 

The Commander gave Leliana a stern look, but asked, “What do you think?”

 

It took Selena a moment to realize that the last question had been directed at her.  That the Commander had turned to her.  That she was staring at him.  Had been staring at him.

 

_I was a Templar_.  She’d known it.  She had seen it.  She could see it now, in the way he held himself, in —

 

She looked away quickly, drawing closer to the table as if studying the maps there.  Please, Maker, don’t let anyone have noticed.  “I — ”  Wanted badly to reach for the cold, to wrap the ice around her.  The room was too small, too crowded, to warm.  But if she did he would sense it, he would —  _Stop.  Stop this.  Think.  Focus.  Don’t — don’t feel like this_  —  “I don’t know what Solas told you, what you know about the Breach, any of you, but when I attempted to close it…what I felt…  The amount of power we would need would be significant.”

 

“The same amount of power that created the Breach.”  Cassandra expression darkened.  “I see the ashes of the Temple every day, Selena.  I know what that means.”

 

Selena looked up.  Forced herself to meet the Commander’s eyes.  “Would the Templars help us?”

 

He held her gaze evenly, and Selena felt her heart race, the frantic flutter at the back of her throat.  He’d noticed.  He saw.  He knew.  “Some wouldn’t.  But others would.  The Templars have their faults, but there are many good men and women in the Order.  I believe there are those who would recognize the Breach for the danger it is, and want to help.”

 

Leliana leaned against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest.  “And those good men and women, the ones who would likely be willing to help, who would have had enough influence to make their words carry weight, also very likely died at the Conclave.  Those who remain will not be so reasonable.  They will not be the sort who want peace.”

 

Cassandra shot the Sister a sharp look.  “The same could be said of the mages, Leliana.”

 

“Yes,” Selena said.  Made herself say.  She needed to remember that — remember there was a reason she hadn’t joined the rebel mages.  Too many of them only wanted blood and vengeance.  They hadn’t cared much for justice or change or freedom, or any of the things they claimed to be fighting for.  Only that, finally, they could fight.

 

The Commander was still watching her.  “Yes,” he agreed.

 

“These are all excellent points,” Lady Montilyet interceded.  “As necessary as this discussion is, however, there is a  _slightly_  more pressing issue.  The Chantry has issued a very important and intimidating, not to mention  _official_ , proclamation, denouncing the Inquisition as a whole, we four for ‘taking part in this heresy’ — that is a direct quote — and you specifically,” she added with an apologetic smile to Selena.  “There are three whole paragraphs about you.”

 

Leliana examined the cuff of one glove.  “That did not take them long.”

 

“Not at all,” the Commander agreed in a surprisingly bitter tone.  “Shouldn’t they be busy arguing over who is going to become Divine?”

 

“Oh, they are,” Lady Montilyet assured him.  “Quite heatedly, and it appears that they will continue to discuss the matter for some time.  It seems the Inquisition is the one topic they can agree on.  Fortunately for us.”

 

“They still think I’m responsible,” Selena said.

 

The ambassador gave an exaggerated sigh.  “Oh, if only it were that simple.   _That_  I could handle in my sleep — you know, survival is not proof of guilt, we must not let our natural anger and grief blind us to what is right, risked her life to stop the Breach, la la la.  Unfortunately, the question of simply finding someone to blame is not the entirety of it any longer.  As we are all aware, there are those — some — well, most  _everyone_ , really, at least in Haven — are calling you the ‘Herald of Andraste.’  That would cause enough problems on its own, but there is also the matter of you being…”

 

It didn’t need to be said, but Selena did.  “A mage.”

 

“Yes.  Unfortunately,” Lady Montilyet said, “in these times it is not wholly unexpected.”

 

“No.”  It wasn’t.

 

“It’s quite the title, isn’t it?”  the Commander remarked, and Selena was surprised to find that he was offering her a wry smile.

 

“Quite.  It…”   _It terrifies me_.  “It’s a little unsettling.”  She tried for calm, but even she could hear the sharp edge of nerves in her voice.

 

His smile warmed.  It was…a nice smile.  Odd, but nice.  No, not odd, she corrected; just unusual.  The Templars she’d known hadn’t smiled much.  “I’m sure the Chantry would agree.”

 

“I don’t suppose we could get them to stop?”  Selena managed to smile back.  At least a little.  “I’ve never claimed to be Andraste’s Herald.”

 

“Isn’t that how it  _always_  is, though?” Lady Montilyet said.  “When you don’t want a title it sticks forever and ever, but  _ask_  people to call you something, or not, and it never works.  Like my second cousin, Theodore —  _every_  Wintersend he’s tried to convince the family that we should start calling him ‘Theodore the Impaler’ — ”

 

“The question is not whether we can get people to stop calling you the Herald,” Leliana cut in smoothly, drawing closer to the table.

 

“ — and we have said to him, ‘Teo, just because you are lepidopterist doesn’t mean we are going to call you ‘The Impaler’ — ’”

 

“It’s whether or not we should.  Even if we tried to stop that rumor from spreading — ”

 

Cassandra gave Leliana a pointed look.  “Which we have not.”

 

“ — then he started sticking everyone with  _pins_  — nearly gave Nonna an attack,  _swooping_  down on her right by the buffet table — ”

 

“The point is,” Leliana continued, meeting Cassandra’s glare, “everyone is talking about you.  That gives us something to work with, and at the moment we have very little,” she said, firing the last words at Cassandra like arrows.  “The ‘Herald of Andraste’ can be a powerful force for the Inquisition, a point for those desperate for hope to rally behind.”

 

“Or against,” Lady Montilyet said without missing a beat.  “Don’t eat me, Leliana, you know that it is true.  What is hope for some is, to others, a symbol of everything that has gone wrong.  And whatever the varied and equally justified opinions on that title are,” she continued, raising her voice and eyeing the others down before they could speak, “the more pressing concern is that it frightens the Chantry.  The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we are all aware what a  _casual_  and  _relaxed_  attitude the Chantry has about blasphemy.”

 

Cassandra snorted. “Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt.”

 

“Whoever lit the spark, that is not our problem, not now.”  Lady Montilyet held up a hand.  “The problem  _now_  is that it limits our options.  Approaching the mages  _or_  Templars for help is currently out of the question.  The Chantry was the only organization with enough influence to convince both sides to come together, and now it is fragmented and leaderless — and even if they were not — ”  Lady Montilyet wave a hand at Selena.  “You know.”

 

“Blasphemy,” Selena said.

 

Lady Montilyet sighed.  “Yes.”

 

Selena thought of the ruins of the Temple, the bodies burned away.  She was blasphemy, and that wasn’t.  “They aren’t more concerned about the Breach?  The real threat.”

 

“They do know it’s a threat,” the Commander said.  “They just don’t think we can stop it.”

 

“The Chantry,” Lady Montilyet informed them, “with their infinite wisdom and patience and long habit of considering a situation fully before they begin pointing fingers, is telling everyone you will only make it worse.”

 

“That is ridiculous,” Cassandra said hotly.  “I do not care what Roderick has said — we have told them your mark is the only means we have of sealing the Breach.  Do they think we would lie to them?”

 

“I can only guess at what they think,” Lady Montilyet said, with every appearance of one choosing her words with care.  “There have been letters of condolence, of course, and one or two mentions of how  _deeply_  you must be grieving, not letting one’s emotions run away with oneself, that sort of thing…”

 

“That is absolute — ”

 

“Then what do they plan to do about it?” Selena asked.  It came out harsher than she expected.

 

“Argue.  Debate.  Accuse each other.  Accuse  _us_.”  Lady Montilyet's satins shimmered in the light of the torches as she shrugged.

 

“Nothing,” Leliana scoffed.  “And they will continue to do nothing until the sky tears open in Val Royeaux, and they are forced to face the demons themselves.”

 

Selena looked down at the maps again.  At the glitter of green stones.  And felt the ache sing in her hand, bone deep.  “Then what do we do?”

 

“We go to the Hinterlands.”  Cassandra tapped a decisive finger on the map of Ferelden, on a spot some small distance from Haven.  “Here.  We were already preparing a small party to travel there for supplies before the Conclave.”

 

“We’ve received reports of a number of rifts in the area,” the Commander said.  His expression was grim.  “They’re appearing near farms, for the most part.  Villages.  We’ve sent what soldiers we could into the area to offer assistance.  I fear it will not be enough.”

 

“Nor is that the whole of it,” Lady Montilyet said.  “With the destruction of the Conclave, the fighting between the mages and Templars has renewed — quite  _enthusiastically_ , we hear,” she added bitterly.

 

Of course it had.  Selena realized that she was watching the Commander.  That he was watching her.

 

“There is one other reason for this expedition,” Leliana said.  “I recently received a letter from a Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle.  She has spent the past several months in the Hinterlands, tending to the refugees who have been displaced by the fighting between the mages and Templars.  She has requested the Inquisition’s assistance.  In her letter,” Leliana continued, “Mother Giselle asked to speak with the Herald of Andraste personally.”

 

“She wants to talk to me?” Selena asked.  “Why?”

 

“That she does not say.”

 

“It is hardly surprising,” Lady Montilyet added.  “You are a  _very_  popular person.  We have begun to receive any number of notes from various and assorted parties who are interested in meeting the Herald of Andraste — for various and assorted reasons — and I am certain this is only the start.”

 

“I have heard of this Mother Giselle,” Leliana went on.  “The Divine always spoke highly of her.  She is said to be more reasonable than her sisters.  More importantly, Mother Giselle is well known among the clerics, and her work has earned her a certain degree of respect.”

 

“Respect  _and_  influence,” Lady Montilyet said.  “Her support would carry a great deal of weight with the remaining clerics.”

 

“Even if she does not,” Cassandra cut in, “we have an obligation to provide her, and the refugees, with the assistance they require.  If the Inquisition is to stop this war, then we have a duty to protect those caught in the middle.”

 

“I agree,” Selena said, which earned her a look of approval from Cassandra.

 

“It will be dangerous,” the Commander said.  “I recommend we send a personal guard with the Herald, to ensure her safety.”

 

Cassandra regarded Selena for a brief moment, and nodded.  “Who would you recommend, Commander?”

 

“Varric.  And Solas,” Selena said quickly.  Too quickly.  She knew it, even as she forced herself to look up.  To meet the Commander’s gaze.  “If they would be willing.”

 

The Commander hesitated.  “With all due respect to both of those men, they are not trained soldiers.  I would prefer to send one of my Templars.”

 

“To act as escort for a mage?”  Leliana laughed.  “We would like her to come back.”

 

The Commander ignored her.  His attention was fixed on Selena.  “My men can be relied upon.”

 

“I don’t doubt it, but I — that is, I would prefer Varric and Solas,” she said, straining every muscle to sound like…like a normal person, with sane, sensible reasons for what she was asking.  “They were there when we attempted the Breach.  We worked well together, and I — ”  Selena stopped herself before she said  _trust_ , but she could practically see it hanging there in the air between them.  The muscles in the Commander’s jaw tightened.  “I would prefer them.  If they are willing.  If not,” she said firmly — made herself say — “I will accept whatever guard you see fit.”

 

The Commander’s attention didn’t leave her, but he said, “Cassandra?”

 

“I have no objections.  I will be with Selena as well,” Cassandra added.  “I shall personally see to it that no harm comes to her.”

 

He didn’t answer for a moment.  “As the Herald wishes.”

 

Selena stifled the rush of relief.  “When do we leave?”

  
Cassandra smiled.  “Tomorrow.”


	13. Chapter 13

Malcolm didn’t hear about the Inquisition until he got out of lockup.

He was in lockup because he had, in a purely technical sense and in the eyes of the law, started that fight in the tavern. The  _for no good reason_  part was horseshit, though. Looking at him weird was a perfectly legitimate reason; it hadn’t been the real reason, but still. Perfectly legitimate.

The real reason was that he just wanted to hit something and make it bleed.

Mal had been on his way to the Conclave when he heard about it. He’d lost time arguing with his father and Willem, but he hadn’t thought it mattered. The point was to get there, not to be the first one through the bloody doors, and, besides, the talks would be going on for weeks even if they went well. He could spare a few days. Or so he’d thought.

He heard about it just after he’d landed in Ferelden. The fishermen on the docks had to repeat it a few times. Mal wasn’t sure he heard right. He didn’t believe it at first. And then he didn’t want to.

He went to the nearest tavern, got drunk to just — to just  _stop_ thinking about it. About how he’d been too late,  _again._ About how he’d seen it — he had fucking  _seen_ it on the sail over. He’d been reading her letter and heard the crew shouting. He’d gone over and found them pointing to the mountains and the smoke and the strange green glow that seemed to stain the sky.

But he’d still thought about it, no matter how drunk he’d gotten, so Mal changed tactics and picked a fight with half the tavern. Pain was always better than booze for forgetting.

The city guard had been surprisingly decent about the whole thing. They’d even had a healer in to look at his face and hands. Apparently he’d dislocated a couple fingers punching that one dwarf in the face. They hurt like a bitch in heat, but they were still attached. They’d heal.

By the time the guard let him out of the cells, Malcolm was entirely too sober for his own peace of mind. He’d have liked to head straight back to the tavern, any tavern, but all those hours of cold, clear-minded sobriety had given him the time and space to think.

They made him sign for his sword and his daggers; they’d taken Selena’s letter, too. He didn’t need it, he had it memorized by now, but he liked to hold it in his hands. To look at the fading ink. Remember how he felt the first time he opened it, that gut punch, that  _knowing_  it was her just by the handwriting alone. It was like prodding a sore tooth, except in this case the tooth deserved to be prodded because it had been a selfish fucking asshole.

He’d heard a couple of the guards talking as he’d settled his sword on his belt, and his daggers on his back, and the letter in the pocket inside his jacket. About the Conclave, which was all anyone was talking about, and the Breach, which went right along with it, and something called the Inquisition, which sounded like a bunch of assholes banding together to solve everyone’s fucking problem, which was just what the world needed. Mal wasn’t really listening. He didn’t give a shit. He was entirely too sober for his own good, but at least sober meant he could plan.

One of the guards was happy enough to point him in the direction of the road to Redcliffe — probably because it was the fastest way out of town. He didn’t care. Some of the other guests in his cell had talked about Templars setting up a base not that far outside Redcliffe. It was as good a start as any.

 

* * *

 

Tristen’s shield skidded into the snow.

Cullen suppressed the urge to shout at the man. Again. He might have shouted had it been a matter of laziness or frustration, or Tristen underestimating the young recruit he was matched with. Shouting might have worked then.

The idea had been for his older and more experienced soldiers — which were, for the most part, his Templars — to help train the newer recruits. Share their experience. Guide them. Not lose their shield in the second match. Cullen pushed past his frustrations, and nodded instead to the recruit Tristen had been sparring with. “Good work. What did we learn?”

“Um.” The recruit glanced around as if he was taking a test. “Don’t lose your shield?”

“Yes.” Cullen addressed Tristen. “What else?”

Tristen pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his damp hair. “Focus.” He nodded to the recruit. “There are a lot of distractions in a fight, kid. You let yourself lose focus and you’re dead. It only takes a second, and it only takes one.”

“A very valuable lesson, Ser Tristen. Try it again,” Cullen ordered.

He would have turned away, but Tristen spoke up. “Commander. A moment?”

Cullen didn’t need to ask what it was about. Not when the Herald had been at the forge for the better part of the morning, head bent alongside the blacksmith as they worked up a staff. The apostate — Solas — had drifted over to the forge at one point. He now stood a little ways away, overseeing the crafting with a scholarly air and occasionally saying something that would make Harritt tug on his mustache, and once step away to start pacing and muttering to himself. Cullen had dismissed it, and had made it clear that he expected his men to do the same. Or so he had thought.

He debated briefly putting the man off, but decided against it. Better to let the man have his say now, rather seething in silence. Tristen had come with him from Kirkwall. He knew Tristen had concerns from the first about the Inquisitions open attitude towards mages. Cullen also knew that Tristen was a good Templar, and a good man. Cullen nodded for the recruit to join the others. “What is it?”

It wasn’t a good sign that Tristen glanced at a number of the other Templars before speaking. Young Rory was glaring at him. Lysette shook her head, then looked away when she saw Cullen watching. There were a number of edged looks cast at the blacksmith’s forge.

“I know it isn’t that,” Cullen said.

Tristen stiffened. “She’s a mage,” he said finally. “We know what they’re capable of.”

“The Herald of Andraste can be trusted.”

Tristen eyed him. “You trust her? Ser.”

Cullen didn’t let himself hesitate. “Yes.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. He didn’t know her, only what people said of her, and with a title like ‘the Herald of Andraste’ people were bound to say a great many things. But Cassandra had made it clear that she trusted her, and he trusted Cassandra. And Leliana — well, it was as she said. They needed Trevelyan. Sometimes trust had to be given before it could be earned.

And the bitter part of him that was always watching, that never let him forget, reminded him that so far Trevelyan had shown herself willing to help. They had shackled her and thrown her into a dungeon, accused her of murdering the Divine and hundreds others, and she had still done what she could to close the Breach when they asked. They called her Andraste’s Herald, but still she was willing to fetch and carry, and see to the small forgotten jobs that everyone else was too busy for. That she had, perhaps, shown herself worthy of some trust.

“It trust her,” Cullen said.

“Well, we  _don’t_.” Rory pushed forward, jerking away from Lysette when she tried to catch the young Templar’s arm. “First Kirkwall and now the Temple. The Seeker can say all she likes that we don’t know what happened, but it’s not like anything other than a bloody  _mage_ could’ve done that.” He jabbed his sword at the scarred mountain. “ _Look_  at her, Commander. She’s watching us, she always watches us.”

Cullen allowed himself to glance at the forge. The Herald was indeed watching them. She appeared calm, composed, as she met his eyes, but he could see the effort behind the polish.

Solas was watching them as well. He bestowed a stiletto-edged smile on Cullen when he looked over, along with a gracious nod to his men.

“She’s planning something, her and that  _apostate_ ,” Rory spat out, glaring the forge. “We all see it. They say she’s supposed to save us from that thing? I say you can’t trust a mage with that much power.” Cullen saw far too many nods among the group for his liking. Rory saw them as well, and kept going. “I say it’s our duty to keep an eye on her — and they’re  _arming_ her now — ”

“Enough.” It was a mild warning. Still it was enough to have a few of the Templars looking away. One or two began to edge back from the crowd.

“We just wanted to let you know,” Tristen said, cutting Rory off when the boy tried to start again. “We trust you. To let us know if something needs to be done.”

“We know about Kirkwall,” Rory rushed on. “We know — ”

“This isn’t Kirkwall,” Cullen bit off. It never would be. He would not let that happen.

“We know that,” Tristen said. “But you don’t simply forget your training, ser. Your duty. You don’t forget who you are.”

“Especially not now,” Rory cut in, “not with  _her_  walking around.” He was still glaring at the Herald, but it eased into smirk as she stood and tested her staff, rolling it along her hands. “At least it won’t be that difficult.”

“What was that?” Cullen demanded.

Rory stared at him. “Well, you know, Commander. Just that it won’t be that hard. To deal with her. When — if it comes to it. Not like that apostate, you can tell he knows how to fight, so if we have to put him down — ”

“ _Enough_.” It came out louder than he intended. Cullen ignored the heads turning in their direction. “Let me make this perfectly clear,” he stated. “Whatever we were before, here and now we are all part of the Inquisition. If there is a man or woman among you who feels they cannot support the Herald, or any other person here as a member of the Inquisition, then they have no place here. If I hear any one of you speaking this way again, it will be the last time they do so as one of my soldiers. Is that understood?” His Templars saluted. “Ser Rory?”

The boy saluted. “Yes, Commander.”


	14. Chapter 14

Cullen made a point of seeking out the Herald the next morning. Early, before the party had set out for the Hinterlands.

He’d been awake for some time. It hadn’t been a bad night — he’d had worse — but it had been bad enough. At a certain point it was easier to get up than to try to force himself back to sleep, chasing some idea of rest. Besides, there was work to be done. There was always work to be done, even in the dim grey half-light before dawn, when most of Haven was still asleep.

He came across Cassandra, speaking with Leliana by the path out of Haven. She was attempting to whisper, but the Seeker’s voice had a quality that cut through all other sound. “One raven when we make camp.” Cassandra shifted her weight on the balls of her feet, radiating energy and impatience in spite of the dark circles under her eyes. “That is what we agreed.”

“And one when you break camp in the morning, and one at midday,” Leliana countered. Her breath frosted in the air. “That is three, Cassandra. Argue all you like, but we —  _all_ of us — agreed on this.”

“Exactly how big of a flock are we going to be bringing with us?” Varric asked, voice rough with sleep. He was settled a few paces away, leaning up against the stone wall, yawning and bleary-eyed as he tinkered with his crossbow.

Leliana ignored him. “We need to know where you are, and that you are safe.” She lowered her voice and Cullen didn’t catch what she said next, but Cassandra looked to the Temple. She frowned, but muttered, “Very well, Leliana.”

“Morning, Curly.” Varric gave Cullen a tired nod before turning back to his crossbow. “You’re up bright and early. Here to see us off?”

“I am.” Cullen scanned the small group of people checking their packs, securing the raven cages, huddled together and stamping their feet to fight the cold. He didn’t see the Herald. Nor Solas, either, but that was to be expected. The apostate took himself off often at odd times. Usually whenever someone was looking for him. He would disappear into the woods or down the overgrown paths around Haven, returning only when everyone had given up the search. He appeared to make a point of passing through the soldiers’ tents on his return. Always with a nod to Cullen and a civil word to the Templars as he headed to the gates, silent as a shadow.

Cullen had heard a number of his Templars muttering about that as well.

He wondered if Solas had gone out alone or if the Herald was with him. She was fond of Solas, it seemed — that was, she spoke to him, Cullen amended. She didn’t seem to speak to many people, not without the other person speaking first. Or so he had noticed. Solas was one. Varric, as well, and Cassandra. One of the healers. The brusque apothecary. And —

He looked to the blacksmith’s. Saw the slim, white-haired figure bent over one of the workbenches.

Harritt was shoulder to shoulder with the Herald as Cullen approached, pulling on his mustache as he frowned at the staff laid out in front of them. The one they had been working on the other day, Cullen thought. He was tempted to cross over to them. He stayed where he was, in the doorway of the forge.

The Herald was winding a strip of leather along the grip, one hand slowly turning the staff as she smoothed the leather along the handle with the other. Cullen watched the long strip of leather trailing through her bare fingers.

His gaze dropped to her left hand. To the mark. In the dull morning light, the scar was a quiet, pale slash across her hand. The muted green glow along the scar was so faint, he couldn’t be sure if he saw it or simply thought he did.

She rarely went without gloves now, he’d noticed.  _Perhaps because people stare_ , his mind pointed out, and he looked away.

“Not so careful, now. It has to be right, it don’t have to be perfect. There you go.”   The Herald started to sew the leather in place. Harritt’s smile dropped into a grimace. “No, not like that — you’re not embroidering a seat cushion, girl, you’re making a weapon here. Let me — ”

The Herald planted her hand down on the staff when Harritt reached for it. “I need to know how to do this myself. If it breaks like this in the field — ”

“Then you’re fucked,” the blacksmith cut in. “And we’ll all be fucked, which we will be with those prissy little stitches you’re doing, Your Highness.”

“Harritt.” Cullen’s voice was quiet, but it carried. “You will address the Herald of Andraste with the respect she deserves. Is that understood?”

The blacksmith snorted — then his amusement dropped away when he saw Cullen’s face. “Yeah. Right, uh, Commander. Beg pardon, m’lady.”

“It’s all right.” The Herald spoke to Harritt, but she was watching Cullen.

He met her gaze levelly. “No, it isn’t.”

“No, he’s right, m’lady. Help you, Commander?” Harritt picked up a nearly clean rag from one of the workbenches and began to work at the grime on his hands.

“Yes. That is.” Cullen cleared his throat, setting his shoulders back. “I came to see if the Herald has everything she requires. For the expedition.”

There was a moment’s pause before the Herald answered, her expression carefully neutral. “As soon as this is done, yes,” she said, nodding to the staff.

“If there is anything you need, you only have to let me or my men know.”

Her eyes shifted to the tents behind him. He followed her gaze. Several of his Templars were up and about, getting the fire started and the coffee going.

“Any of my men,” Cullen said.

“Is that so?” Her voice was almost too quiet to catch. But the skepticism, even quiet —  _that_  was clear.

“Yes,” he said firmly.

She glanced quickly at him, and then away. “Thank you. That’s…very considerate of you.”

“What she needs is to learn how to stop being such a ladyship about it and make a real bloody weapon,” Harritt said, adding quickly, “That is, with all due respect, lady. If I, uh, may?” The Herald nodded and Harritt took the staff, jerking the needle through the staff’s leather grip. “Here, big bites, like this. Hinterlands’re a mess, you want it to hold up to all the fighting. All due respect, you don’t get to play princess in a tower any longer. Nobody’s going to take pity on you just cause you bat your pretty eyes at them.”

“Bigger stitches disrupt the flow of magic.” But she leaned closer to his work to see. The tail of her hair tumbled over her shoulder, stark against the rough brown leather of her jacket.

“And delicate lady stitches break the first time you get in a real fight, and rip your hands raw. Can’t have that happen to the Herald’s hands, can we? Need those pretty little things to close that damn Breach.” Harritt winked at her, then schooled his face into a serious expression when he saw Cullen watching.

“My hands are fine,” she said.

“And your staff is shite — beg pardon, isn’t good enough,” Harritt amended, with a nod to Cullen. “Goes up against High and Mighty once and what happens.”

“You fought with Solas?” Cullen asked, too quickly to keep the brittle edge out of his voice. Tensions between the Templars and mages in Haven were already difficult enough as it was without conflict erupting between the mages themselves. Particularly when one of those was the Herald. They couldn’t risk —

“I asked him for some advice. On defending myself.” The Herald’s answer was cautious. “He’s been on his own a lot longer than I have.”

And that had been Templar thinking.  _Again_ , he thought bitterly. “Speaking to Solas was a wise idea,” Cullen said. Made himself say. It was easier than he thought it would be.

“I thought so, but as you can see…” The Herald waved a hand at the staff Harritt was still mending. “He takes it very seriously.” For a moment, Cullen caught a flicker of humor in her eyes. A glimpse behind the barricade.

“As he should,” Cullen said. “Have you had any training?”

“Not really. Some theory in the Circle, but very little…practical — ” She stopped. Watched Harritt for a moment. Watched the needle stab through the leather and pull tight. Her eyes were troubled. “After the Circle, I — the people I was with — we avoided conflict as best we could. I don’t suppose that will be an option now,” she went on, looking back up at him. Her face was pale, but he could see the polish she wrapped around her, covering over the pain.

“No, it won’t,” he said.

“At least you’ll have a decent bloody weapon when the time comes. Here. Take a look.” Harritt tossed the staff over.

Cullen reached out, caught it without thinking. He had seen any number of staffs before, at Kinloch. At Kirkwall, the Knight-Commander had outlawed the carrying of staffs by any mage, but there had been one or two storehouses with a few antique, beautiful pieces. Masterworks crafted over the course of years that had almost sang with a life of their own. This staff was…well, he supposed it was better than nothing.

Then Cullen realized that the Herald was staring up at him, her expression wary. And, more importantly, that he was standing over here. Holding her weapon over her, just out of reach. There was a long moment, trailing out like sap. She shifted slowly to her feet, and held out her hand.

“Forgive me.” Cullen handed the staff to her.

Her fingers closed securely over the wooden handle. “Thank you.”

“How’s that feel?” Harritt nodded to the staff.

“Fine.” She was still watching him.

Harritt snorted. “Fine isn’t good enough, girl. Test it out a bit.”

The Herald stepped out of the forge, turning the staff over in her hands. Cullen felt the shift in the air, the slight change in pressure as she called on her magic. Frost crawled along the staff. He saw the caution, the measure of control. Good. A certain amount of inexperience, but the control was a very good sign. That bespoke not just practice, but a Harrowing. Last thing they needed was a Herald who had yet to be tested against a demon’s temptations.

_You just can’t stop,_  his mind pointed out,  _can you?_  Cullen looked away.

“Well?” Harritt demanded.

“Sturdy.”

Harritt nodded, smug. “Told you.” The blacksmith began to methodically clean his tools.

Cullen took a measured breath. He was not a Templar. He would not think like a Templar. He would not act like one. He crossed over to the Herald. Her attention was fixed on the staff, rolling it along the back of her fingers to catch it underhand. He didn’t allow himself to hesitate. “You want to grip it higher. If I may?”

She was still for a moment, her eyes on the staff. Then she gave a brief nod.

Cullen adjusted her grip, wrapping the fingers of her right hand higher on the staff. “The other should be here,” he went on, shifting her other hand lower. Her left hand. He could feel the warmth of the mark through the leather of his gloves. “There. You’ll have greater control that way, and it will be harder to disarm you. Try it.”

She did. As close as he was, Cullen could smell the magic as she cast. All magic had a scent to it. It was usually faint, but if you spent enough time around mages you learned to recognize it. It was almost exactly like what it was — smoke or snow or the sharp tang of lighting — but clearer. More potent.

“Better.” He could already see that it was.

“Better,” the Herald agreed. “Thank you.” There it was again. The trace of a smile. The flicker of something behind the walls. He could see it in her eyes. Pretty eyes, Harritt had called them, but that wasn’t quite accurate.  _Pretty_  was too ordinary a word. They needed something extraordinary, Cullen thought. If he wasn’t so tired, so tense, if he was better with words, he could have thought of something, but for now…  _extraordinary_  was better, he thought — and then wondered why he was thinking like this. He wasn’t entirely sure. Maker’s breath, he was tired. Her eyes were nice — pretty, yes — and, well, blue. A sort of light blue. And clear. He had met plenty of people with clear light blue eyes that had sort of little brown and grey flecks in them,  _and_   _for Andraste’s sake stop glaring at her like she’s one of your recruits._

“Yes. Well.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck.

She twisted the staff in her fingers, the tip scratching small circles into the hard earth. “And…thank you, for speaking up as you did with Harritt.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But it wasn’t necessary,” she went on.

“With all due respect,” Cullen returned, “it was.”

He saw the shift in her posture, the straightening of her spine as she drew herself up slightly. “That’s not really for you to say, Commander.”

“Forgive me, my lady Herald, but it’s not for you to say either. You may not mind it, he may not mean anything by it, but if we allow one person to speak to you in that way it opens the door to others. Those who do mean something by it. We all must set an example.”

“Is that what you’re doing?” she returned. “Setting an example?”

“Yes,” he said.

“For them” — she jerked her chin towards the Templars — “or for me?”

“For myself,” Cullen bit off. He nodded to her staff. “Try it again.”

She flushed. “Forgive me.”

Cullen cleared his throat. He shouldn’t have snapped at her like that. “It’s not necessary — ”

“Yes, it is.” The Herald looked away, her mouth pressed into a tight line. “I didn’t mean — ” She stopped. She did mean it and they both knew it.

The Herald turned back to him. Met, held, his gaze for a long moment. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. Would you, please, show me again?” she asked after a moment, holding out her staff.

Cullen nodded. Adjusted her grip, and then he stopped her as she twisted the staff to adjust her grip once more. “You should have Cassandra train with you on the road,” he said, shifting her fingers. “Solas as well, if he can be convinced to use practice staffs — your thumb should be here. Good. You’ll be facing both Templars and mages. The rebel mages — ”

“Will be tired. And hungry. And desperate,” she said. “Desperate mages become abominations. We’re prepared for that.”

Cullen ignored the sudden, constricting sense of claustrophobia, and the hum in the back of his mind of a force field. He would ignore it. “It is a very different thing to prepare for abominations than it is to face them. Have you faced abominations before?”

“Yes. I… yes. Twice,” she added.

“At the Circle?” He wasn’t sure why he asked that. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t wanted to remember.

The Herald nodded. “Once.” She hesitated, and then went on. “And there was a…at a village. There were some people that — that would help mages, or so we’d heard, and they’d taken in a young woman and — ” The Herald stopped. “Like this?” she asked, nodding to her hands.

“Yes. Good. Better,” Cullen said, focusing. Pushing the past aside. “Stay as far back as you can. Leave the close quarters fighting to Cassandra.”

The Herald flexed her fingers on the staff handle. “I may not have that choice.”

“No,” he agreed. “If that happens — when that happens — strike hard and strike first. Never give them the opportunity to think, only to react. Don’t forget that this,” he laid a hand her staff, “is a weapon in and of itself, not simply an instrument to channel your magic. You can’t rely on your magic alone, especially when facing Templars,” he told her. “Once they see you and Solas they will cleanse the area around them.”

“I know.” Her fingers flexed on the staff’s handle again, her thumb rubbing one point over and again. “I’ve faced Templars before.”

“I expect you have.” Cullen made a point to catch her gaze and hold it. “As I have faced mages.”

Something in her expression shifted. Softened, into understanding. “Yes.”

“Many.” He shouldn’t have asked it. But he did.

“No,” she said quietly. And asked, “Many?”

“Yes.” Many who he was supposed to protect. Many who he had failed to.

The Herald glanced at him, her gaze lingering on his armor. “You were a Templar.”

“I left.” It came out short. Curt. Cullen pushed away a frown and added, “Cassandra approached me to join the Inquisition, and I could no longer in good conscience remain with the Order.”

The expression in her eyes was serious and rather solemn. He wondered what she saw, looking at him. Then wished he hadn’t. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with people looking at him. He wasn’t quite comfortable looking at himself.

No wonder his Templars didn’t like it when she watched them. It was the way she looked at someone. Intent and intense. It was not unlike the way Leliana looked at people, though the sister’s gaze flayed. The Herald’s focused.

“That couldn’t have been easy,” she said.

“No,” Cullen said. “But it was what I felt to be right.”

“Do you always do what you think is right?”

He thought of Kirkwall, of the seething, bitter anger he had carried all those years and let take root. He had seen the Gallows, and told himself what was done there was necessary. Believed it was necessary. And had let that stop him from speaking until it was too late.

There were days when knowing that, carrying that, felt impossible.

He had told himself then that it wouldn’t have changed anything. If he had spoken. Told himself that he had done what he could — that the reports he had filed against his fellow Templars, the recommendations he made to the Knight-Commander, were enough, even when they were ignored. Perhaps if he had spoken it wouldn’t have changed things. Perhaps it would have ended in blood just the same. But it would be easier to look himself in the mirror.

“I try to,” Cullen said.

“Herald!” Cassandra’s voice cut through the quiet morning. She strode over. “We are ready. If you are?”

“Yes.” The Herald hesitated. Turned to him. “Thank you. Again.”

Without thinking, Cullen held out a hand to stop them, and noticed the Herald stilled like a deer when he did. And then flushed deeply when she noticed that he’d noticed. “I would like to see the expedition off. If I may.”

She glanced at Cassandra, who smiled approvingly, and said, “Of course, Commander.”

The Herald fetched her pack from the forge, thanking Harritt in a low voice. Cullen walked with her as they crossed to the rest of the party was waiting. Stayed by her side as they walked by the tents, passing the small group of Templars huddled over their coffee. He saw the heads lifting as they approached, turning to track them as they walked past. The daggered looks cutting past him to the Herald. Cullen glanced at the Herald and saw the tension in the line of her shoulders. The pulse jumping in her throat.

He turned on his soldiers. “What are you all doing?” Cullen barked. “You should be getting the rest of the recruits up, and start them on their paces.”

To his satisfaction, there was an echo of ‘yes, sir’s and his Templars immediately began to stand and move away.

Lysette paused, and stepped a few paces forward to address the Herald. “Safe journey, my lady.”

The Herald hesitated, but only for a moment. “Thank you. Lysette.”

Lysette saluted, to the Herald and Cullen, and strode off.

Varric tossed Cassandra a half-hearted glare as they approached. “You know, it’s really not fair for you to be so damn perky this early in the morning, Seeker.”

“Perhaps you would be perky as well if you did not spend half the night in the tavern,” Solas suggested.

“Chuckles, I can’t tell you how much your advice means to me.” Varric rubbed his face.

Cullen positioned himself by the Herald and waited there, at her side, as Cassandra conducted a brisk final examination of the few men who were to go with them. Too few for Cullen’s peace of mind, but they were woefully short of trained, able soldiers. He wouldn’t send recruits, though — not with the reports they were getting out of the Hinterlands.

As for the Herald’s personal escorts… Cullen barely suppressed a frown as Varric stamped his feet against the cold. He liked Varric. He had seen first-hand the damage that Bianca of his could do. But the dwarf wasn’t a soldier.

Cullen regarded Solas. He did frown. He didn’t know that one at all.

He glanced at the Herald, and found her watching him. She knew, he realized. What he had been thinking. She was waiting for him to say it. It would be foolish, he knew; he was reasonably confident how she would respond if he insisted on assigning a few proper soldiers — Templars — to accompany her. Here, where it could quickly turn into an argument with an audience.

But Cullen would be damned if he let things go unsaid again. He wouldn’t be that man anymore. “My lady — ”

“They are ready. And you, Selena?” Cassandra interrupted, striding over to them.

“Yes,” the Herald said, shifting her attention to Cassandra with a careful smile.

“You have checked your pack. Twice?”

“Yes.”

“You are certain? A pack checked once is not checked at all. You have sufficient lyrium potions? Elfroot? Did you make sure to bring extra socks?” Cassandra gave the Herald a stern look. “It may not snow as much in the Hinterlands, but that does not mean it will not be cold.”

The Herald laughed, a bright, brief sound that seemed to surprise her nearly as much as it did Cullen. It was…a nice sound. “Yes, Cassandra. I have plenty of socks.”

“For Andraste’s sake, Seeker,” Varric called out. He chafed his hands together and then huffed on his fingers for warmth.

Cassandra gave him a sour look, but said briskly, “He is right. It will take us more than a week to get to the Hinterlands on foot. The sooner we leave, the better.”

“Is the plan for us to sleepwalk there, Seeker?”

“Is it your plan to make sarcastic comments every few minutes?” Solas inquired.

Varric shrugged. “Pretty much.”

The Herald turned to Cullen. The wind was picking up and it had started to snow. Small flakes caught on her clothes, were almost invisible in her hair. “Any other advice, Commander?”

“Yes,” Cullen said. “Come back. We don’t know how to close the Breach without you.”

Her eyes shifted to the mountain for a moment. “Yes, ser.” She offered her hand.

Cullen shook it firmly, knowing his Templars were watching. “Safe journey.”

He did not stay to watch them go. There was too much to do, and he had spent time he did not have assisting the Herald. So he turned away as they started off, and forced aside the urge to look back.


End file.
